


From Russia with Love

by griever11



Category: Arrow (TV 2012)
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe, Enemies to Lovers, F/M, FBI Felicity, FBI!Felicity, Mob boss Oliver, Undercover, bratva!Oliver, olicity - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-15
Updated: 2020-03-08
Packaged: 2021-02-26 00:34:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 18
Words: 85,392
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21804553
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/griever11/pseuds/griever11
Summary: Rookie FBI Agent and resident IT extraordinaire Felicity Smoak has just landed the assignment of a lifetime. Together with Supervisory Senior Agent Diggle, she returns to Starling City undercover in an attempt to flush out the elusive Odessa gang that has been a thorn in the Bureau's side for many years.Leader of the Russian mob Oliver Queen stumbles upon a piece of information that unfortunately requires a certain set of hacking skills that no one he knows seems to possess. Lucky for him, he comes across an unusual criminal hacker who has mysteriously turned up in Starling and funnily enough, seems just right for the job.How's that for perfect timing?
Relationships: Oliver Queen/Felicity Smoak
Comments: 545
Kudos: 826





	1. Chapter 1

**June 2013 - Starling City, Undisclosed Location**

“Ms. Smoak, do you know why you’re here?” 

Seriously? This is the best the FBI can do? Pull her out of work, stick her in an interrogation room, make her wait for half an hour alone, and then just... asks her why she’s here? Super anti-climatic, really. 

“Nope.” She pops the ‘p’, smiling at the FBI agent innocently. “Not a clue.” 

Felicity tries not to make eye contact with the scary-looking agent, just in case all those things about ‘shifty eyes equals lying’ turns out to be true. Instead, she decides she’s going to stare at the weird stain on the wall, and then count the number of tiles laid out on the floor, basically anything _except_ look at the menacing, but very well-dressed woman who’s leaning forward on both her hands on the desk, close enough that Felicity can detect the subtle whiff of Chanel No.5 in the air. 

“Are you sure about that?”

There are thirty-three tiles in the room, not counting the one that’s chipped in the corner by the door. Maybe she should count them again, just to be sure. Thirty-three (and three quarters) seems like a really odd number anyway. 

“Ms. Smoak, I asked you a question!”

“People usually appreciate my silence,” Felicity mutters, shaking her head before finally acknowledging the question in a lazy drawl. “Also, you kinda need to be specific.” 

And _okay_ , a small part of her is _horrified_ at her own cheek, because hello? Should she really be messing around with the _FBI_ right now? But a much bigger part of her is currently crowing with delight because wow, she’s being a complete _badass_ while facing the threat of a potential incarceration. 

“Specific about _what,_ exactly?” FBI lady demands, and even without making direct eye contact with her, Felicity can sense that she’s getting on the lady’s last nerves. 

Felicity touches the fingers of both hands to each other, forming a little finger-cage over the table as she feigns an air of contemplation. “See, when you say ‘here’, do you mean, in this plane of existence, you know, a ‘ _why do you exist?’,_ type of question, or the alternative ‘here’ as in -”

“Felicity. Megan. Smoak.” 

Oh, the chill that accompanied that almost turns her blood to ice. That is not a good tone. Felicity snaps her mouth shut and musters up the courage to look at the woman who’s been circling her for the better part of half an hour in the face. 

In hindsight, maybe pissing off the FBI more than she already has isn’t the smartest thing to do right now. Grimacing, Felicity decides to give her a bone, holding her hands up in the universal sign for surrender. 

“Okay, I only ask because it’s clear that I’m at some FBI black site,” Felicity deflects, pursing her lips as she gives the bland, all-gray room a once over. “‘Cause as far as I know, the FBI does not have a physical presence in little ol’ Starling City, which leads me to think that _all this_ -” Felicity waves her fingers in front of her. “-is off the books, and all secret, and I’m not officially _‘here’_ in the first place.” 

The FBI agent arches an eyebrow and tilts her head back, just an inch, but remains silent. The sound of her heels (Louboutins, Felicity noted with interest when she was frog marched into the interrogation room earlier) clicking impatiently against one of the thirty three tiles on the floor echoes around her. 

A stare-off? Hah, she stares at computer screens for _hours_ every day. Piece of cake. Jokes on you, FBI lady.

“Fine, let me cut to the chase. We got you, you know.” FBI lady ends their impasse with a frustrated sigh. “Ghost Fox Goddess? We found a line of code in the virus you left on our server and managed to run a backtrace that led us straight to you.” 

Oh. Huh. Well that... throws a wrench in things. 

Who knew the FBI’s tech team would be more competent than the CIA’s and the DOJ’s? Felicity swallows the growing lump in her throat, hoping the small tremor of doubt that’s starting to bubble under her skin doesn’t give her nervousness away. 

FBI lady presses her lips together before continuing. “So you see, I was giving you the chance to come clean on your own, but you insist on being difficult. We’ve wasted enough time playing this game of cat and mouse and now I want you to tell me _why_ you hacked us. And yes, we have solid proof of what you did, just in case you’re wondering.” 

She draws a tablet from the inside of her suit jacket, places it on the metal table between them and slides it across to Felicity. The screen lights up as it stops just in front of her, but Felicity doesn’t have to look down at it to know what’s on display. 

Evidence of her epic _failure._

“Do you know that you could go to jail for a really long time for what you did? But if you tell me why you were digging around in our cold case databases last night, I’ll consider making a deal with you to shorten the sentence.”

Felicity narrows her eyes at the lady, and a surge of anger sizzles through her. The anger is directed at herself more than anything, if she’s being honest. Coupled with the sheer embarrassment of being caught, she feels her confidence waning and a nugget of actual fear slowly creeps in. 

Clearly, the mind-numbing grunt work at Queen Consolidated has dulled her skills because the badass MIT hacktivist Felicity Smoak of three years ago certainly would not have left any trace of her little excursion into their servers. 

Or at least, the kind that would lead to being caught by the stupid FBI. 

She does however, still have one more ace up her sleeve. A flimsy, not at all foolproof plan that she’s just cobbled together over the last, say, ten minutes, as her genius brain started putting two and two together. 

“Felicity, I don’t have all day,” FBI lady growls, cutting through her thoughts. She slams a fist against the table, the first sign that her stone-cold exterior is cracking, and _that_ is exactly what Felicity’s been waiting for. 

“Well if you’re in such a hurry, I suggest we drop this charade and start with what _you_ want from me.” she offers, smirking as she folds her arms on the table demurely. 

_“Excuse_ me?”

“I’m blonde, but not that blonde. In fact, I’m not even really a blonde,” Felicity states, rolling her eyes as she prepares what she wants to say in her head. She can’t afford to go off on random tangents right now, or God forbid, accidentally proposition the FBI with her babbling, because even if she is fifty percent confident she’s not in any _actual_ trouble, it doesn’t mean she won’t be in the future. 

“I hacked into a federal agency’s highly secure, classified database and messed around with it, under normal circumstances, I’d already be in cuffs. If you wanted to charge me with a crime, I would have been taken to an actual field office, instead of this super secret black site. _And,_ you wouldn’t have asked the front desk so politely where my cubicle was. So, all this? Totally just an intimidation tactic.” 

She pauses for effect, but doesn’t get single reaction from FBI lady. Okay, she’s good, she’ll give her that. 

“You also didn’t introduce yourself to me which tells me that you’re covering your ass if I don’t take you up on whatever your offer is. That way, you can claim plausible deniability and pretend you don’t know _anything_ when your superiors hear about this.” 

Leaning back in the uncomfortable metal chair, she licks her lips and finishes with, “So, again, what exactly do you want from me in exchange for you not charging me with hacking you?”

She’s proud that her voice never wavered once during her entire spiel, false bravado carrying her the whole way through, because the truth is, she _is_ nervous. More than she cares to admit. She did hack into the FBI after all, that fact is undeniable. 

All of a sudden, the silence that stretches between them is deafening and looming and what if she’s read this entire situation all wrong and the FBI _are_ on a fact finding mission before they charge her and she’s being overly cocky, which is, unfortunately, exactly what got her into this mess in the first place and - _hang on._

Felicity rocks back in her chair as she tries to make sense of what she’s seeing in front of her.

What the _hell?_

FBI lady’s lips turn upwards so slowly like - is FBI Agent Grumpyface... _grinning?_

“Well, done, Felicity. Congratulations.”

Felicity’s jaw drops. 

“You passed our first test.” 

“But I wasn’t prepared for a test,” she blurts out, and then cringes immediately even as it elicits a small chuckle from the FBI agent. Felicity drops her hands onto her lap, twisting the material of her dress under her fingers and for the first time since she sat down in the interrogation room, she feels a little dumb. 

“This was a... test?”

“Correct. And you passed with flying colours. You kept your cool under stressful circumstances. When faced with new developments, you analysed the situation quickly and came to a conclusion - the right one, by the way, and held your ground. I’m impressed and personally very pleased that the rumours about your skills and intelligence haven’t been exaggerated.”

“I’m - uh, thanks?” Felicity manages as she tries to make sense of what she’s being told. The rumours of her... The FBI had rumours about _her?_ What on Earth is happening right now? 

She suppresses the urge to laugh out loud at the ridiculousness of it all. They caught her hacking into their server, and the consequence of that is... a _test?_

“I don’t understand,” she mumbles, arching her neck and releasing the tension that had started building up. “What do you-”  
  


The agent cuts her off. 

“Felicity Smoak, would you like to join the FBI?”

* * *

**September 2013 - Starling City, Odessa Mob HQ**

“Thank you for seeing me, Oliver. I know you’re busy, but like I told you over the phone, what I have is going to blow your mind. So much so that it’ll be our greatest legacy. The _Pakhan_ will be so pleased, and soon -”

“Calm down, Sergei.” Oliver Queen, leader of the Starling City branch of the Odessa mob rolls his eyes, leans back in his chair lazily and flicks a knife towards the well-worn target hanging on the wall.

Bullseye. Oliver smirks before turning back to Sergei.

“You said you had something to show me. So show me, or leave.” 

Sergei Sharapov may be enthusiastic and over-eager, but he’s also an idiot so Oliver isn’t quite so ready to take him seriously. Oliver’s dealt with his fair share of Sergei’s ‘brilliant’ schemes in his time with the mob and they’ve all either been ridiculously outlandish, or far more complicated than necessary. 

“I can see you don’t believe me,” Sergei grumbles, dropping his well-practiced American accent and switching into his natural Russian one. “But this is _big._ Much bigger than your puny American brain can comprehend, so-” 

Oliver swings his arm around in a blur of movement, pulls out another knife out before letting it fly, embedding it in the plaster mere inches from Sergei’s head. The guy yelps in surprise, gawking at Oliver in disbelief. 

“Don’t be rude,” Oliver growls. The glare he sends in Sergei’s direction makes the other man shrink away and Oliver snorts. Figures. They’re all the same, these gang members; love to talk a big game, but none of them can walk the walk. 

That’s why they had to recruit Oliver into their otherwise entirely Russian outfit. His reputation for being a cruel, ruthless, yet methodological killer had sparked interest within the local branch of the mob, especially when he started picking their members off one by one despite their efforts to stop him. After almost taking out nearly half of the gang, the head of the Odessa decided enough was enough. 

In a rare appearance in Starling City, Vasily Kosov, _Pakhan_ of the four Odessa cells on the West Coast, called for a temporary ceasefire. Realising Oliver was an extremely skilled hitman and had been paid a ridiculous sum of money to take his people out, Vasily made him an offer: Stop killing his men, and in exchange, Oliver takes over as _Sovietnik,_ the leader of the Starling branch of the mob. He gets paid a ridiculous sum of money as a salary, on top of receiving all the other perks of being part of the Russian mob. 

Begrudgingly, Oliver had accepted. After all, steady income is steady income and a hell of a lot easier than surviving from contract to contract. 

So here he is, in his office at the Odessa’s main base of operations, cleverly hidden behind a quaint Russian restaurant, half-listening to Sergei blather on about his latest ‘ingenious’ idea. 

“I got a hold of a computer program, something no one else has ever seen or heard of before. Sophisticated. _Brilliant._ If we use it correctly, the things we could do, Oliver. I’m telling you. It’s the kind of technology that will put us on the map. It’ll make us look great, better than our asshole brothers in Gotham.”

Sergei’s been chomping at the bits to prove his worth lately, eyeing a promotion from within the ranks, so Oliver’s not surprised by his colleague’s enthusiasm. Over the past six months, Oliver’s had to shoot down ludicrous scheme after ludicrous scheme from the man, but nothing seems to be deterring him.

But what catches Oliver’s attention _this_ time however, is the fact that he seems serious about this. Serious enough that he’s approaching Oliver with a sleek little thumb drive between his fingers, holding onto it like it's precious metal. 

Sergei waves the thing in Oliver’s face, then indicates to the laptop idling on Oliver’s desk. “May I?“

Oliver nods, rolling his chair away to make room for him. 

There’s a manic wide-eyed eagerness in Sergei’s demeanour and years of experience reading the subtleties of body language has taught Oliver that this isn’t some kind of childish fantasy, or some half-baked ‘see how we go’ kind of plan. That Sergei’s done a lot of ground work on this and from the device he’s currently inserting it into the laptop, conducted more than his fair share of research into it. 

Okay. Interesting. 

And potentially dangerous. 

“Do you know what you’re doing?” Oliver drops his mask of indifference and leans forward, squinting past Sergei’s hulking build at the scrolling characters that have suddenly popped on the screen. 

“The program does,” Sergei murmurs, tapping a few keys and then finally steps aside so Oliver has a clear view. 

Dragging his chair so he’s right in front of the computer, he figures out what he’s looking at. Instantly on high alert, he clicks through the on-screen command prompts, filing away bits and pieces of what little information he can glean from this program. 

“These are...” Oliver’s no tech whizz by any standard, but he’s not an idiot either. Sergei is right. This is _huge._ The hairs on the back of his neck prickle with unease. He’s always trusted his gut instinct, and his gut is yelling at him to stay the hell away from this. Still, it would be highly irresponsible of him to just let it go without further investigating it.

“This looks like-”

“A peek into the city’s entire communication network,” Sergei interrupts, barely containing his excitement. “See, I wasn’t joking. And this is just the surface of what this guy can do. Right now, we only have read-only access. He can get us complete control over the network. Think about it, monitoring the communications coming out of City Hall, SCPD, _the entire city_... this could be the gold mine we’ve been looking for!”

“What’s the catch?” Oliver asks, turning sharply to Sergei. Information like this doesn’t come cheap, and no one but Oliver and Vasily can access the mafia’s funding so they definitely didn’t bankroll this particular endeavour of his. “How did you get a hold of this, and who is this _he?”_

“Oh, _now_ you’re interested,” Sergei mutters as he pulls the USB device out of Oliver’s laptop. When Oliver doesn’t respond, Sergei retreats back to the other side of Oliver’s desk and folds his arms over his chest. “So, you agree this deserves a call to the _Pakhan,_ doesn’t it?

Oliver shakes his head. He has no doubt that the information will come in handy for their various criminal operations in the city, but he’s not about to trust some stranger’s program, and he sure as hell isn’t going to call upon their leader about it without verifying its origins first. 

“No. I’m not contacting Vasily until you tell me who gave this to you, and how this... _guy,_ got access to all of this.” 

“Agh!” Sergei snarls with frustration. “You - you’re just trying to protect yourself, aren’t you? Are you scared, Oliver? Scared that your position in the brotherhood is under threat? Maybe you should be. Maybe our brotherhood needs a new _Sovietnik,_ someone willing to go the extra mile for our _Pakhan._ Someone who isn’t an American. Someone like me.” 

Disdain ripples through Oliver at Sergei’s smug face. His knuckles turn white as he clenches his fists. As much as he really wants to punch the living daylights out of him though, Oliver wants his answers first.

“Who did you get this from!?” he demands as slams the lid of his laptop shut, standing up. With grim satisfaction, he notices Sergei take a minuscule step backwards, away from Oliver. Good. Who’s scared now, asshole? 

“Why do you want to know?” Sergei scowls. _“I_ found this. It’s my win. I only brought this to you because I need you to get me an audience with the _Pakhan.”_

Without sparing even a second to overthink it, Oliver whips his gun out from under his desk, pointing it straight at Sergei. It’s loaded, safety off, his aim unwavering.

“I’m not going to ask you again.” 

Foolishly, Sergei merely shrugs, though his gaze is trained on the muzzle of his gun. Surprisingly, the slimeball of a snake stands his ground and tilts his chin up stubbornly. Where he got the courage, Oliver doesn’t know, but he can’t have Sergei’s blatant disregard for his authority go unchecked. He can’t set a precedent, and he absolutely cannot let this idiot think he’s in control of the situation.

Oliver didn’t get to be _Sovietnik_ of the Odessa by being a fucking doormat and letting stupid over-ambitious Brigadiers think they had an upper hand.

“You’re really not going to tell me?” Oliver growls, narrowing his eyes. A flicker of quiet anger flows through him, but years of experience has taught him how to keep his temper in check. Sort of. 

“Are you that desperate for recognition, Sergei?” 

“I already told you, I’ll tell the _Pakhan._ Not you. This is my score. I found this. You don’t get to-”

The gunshot that interrupts Sergei mid-sentence is deafening. Oliver barely feels the recoil, his arm absorbing it, and he looks on unfazed as the now lifeless body crumples to the ground. 

Okay, so maybe he hasn’t quite gotten his temper under control as much as thinks he has. 

A bloom of red spreads, slowly, outwards from the gaping hole in Sergei’s chest. What a goddamn waste of a bullet.

Oliver steps out from behind his desk and walks over to the body. He looks down at it, shaking his head. Sergei’s eyes are open, glassy, his mouth contorted in a silent scream. 

“Your fucking blood is gonna stain my carpet,” he murmurs as he bends down, plucking the USB out of Sergei’s limp fingers. “Dead, and still giving me problems.”

Pocketing the thumb drive, Oliver steps over the body and makes his way out of his office, phone already halfway to his ear. The call connects, and he doesn’t wait for a greeting. 

“Hey boss, boy do I have something interesting for you.” 

* * *

**November 2013 - Quantico, FBI Training Facility**

She’s going to die. 

Here lies Felicity M. Smoak, cause of death: Sweltering heat and over-exertion. Didn’t even make it to FBI graduation. 

“You are so dramatic,” her Training Officer, Agent John Diggle, ‘Digg, to my friends’, laughs as his head appears out of nowhere over her, effectively blocking out the sun from her view as she lies motionless on the very uncomfortable AstroTurf.

“I’m not.” She pauses to catch her breath, hands resting on her chest, feeling every hard thud of her heart against her palm. “Smoaks aren’t made for physical activity, okay? Please, let me die in peace. But also, stay right there because you’re being a really good sunshade right now.” 

“For someone who isn’t _made for physical activity_ you sure sailed through the course like a pro,” Digg comments with an arch of his eyebrow. “Top ten finish, in case you didn’t see the board.” 

“Being good at something doesn’t mean I enjoy doing it,” Felicity huffs, but not without a smidgen of pride at Digg’s compliment. 

“Persistence breeds success,” Dig remarks with a twinkle in his eye. “Success breeds triumph.” 

“Did you like, swallow the training manual or something?” Felicity rolls her eyes, and then rolls herself into a ball, away from Digg. She doesn’t care that she’s being a little childish right now, and from her TO’s amused smile, he doesn’t seem to mind it - for now - she’s just so _tired._ “Go away, Digg. I don’t want to go shoot things.” 

“Nope. Enough mucking about, on your feet, trainee.” 

And so ends her brief respite, with an undignified squawk, as Digg hauls her off the ground like she weighs nothing, setting her on her feet with a quiet grunt. He makes a show of dusting her off, sweeping his broad hand over her back and her shoulders unnecessarily (hello? Astroturf?), making her feel like she’s a Christmas ornament that has just fallen off a tree. 

“I’m pretty sure you’re supposed to send me to the range in one piece, and not, you know, in a melted puddle of torn muscles and pain,” she complains, nudging his hand off her shoulders. She’s already so hot, she doesn’t need Digg’s stupidly warm hand to add to the punishing heat.

She’s also sleep-deprived, hungry, and most of all grumpy that despite undergoing some pretty intensive training, every time she finishes a session with Digg, she still feels as useless and incompetent as a brand new trainee all over again. 

That is to say, she’s so frustrated that she’s not above stomping her feet on the ground like a child if it means she gets to stall getting to her next assessment. It’s arguably the portion of training that she hates the most in the entire five months she’s spent in Quantico. 

”You can whine all you want, but you know you need to pass your firearms qualification if you want to make it to Special Agent.” 

Felicity scowls, but reluctantly follows Diggle into the firing range. “Still don’t understand why being able to shoot a gun is mandatory if I’m specialising in Computer Science and Information Technology.” 

It’s an argument they keep coming back to, over and over again, since no one can tell her why she needs to be able to shoot five different types of guns with near perfect precision if all she’s going to do is sit in front of computers and write programs for the FBI.

“Because you’re still going to be a federal agent, CSIT specialist or not, and we have standards,” Digg repeats for the hundredth time. 

When Felicity doesn’t respond, Digg cocks his head and gives her a tender smile. “Hey, you were the one who wanted to get firearms out of the way early. We can switch it up if you want. Do it at the end?” 

Felicity grimaces. “No, no. This is fine. It’s better this way.” 

They get to the range, and as Diggle swipes his Access Card against the ID panel, he squeezes her shoulder reassuringly. “Now quit complaining and go get em’, trainee. Make me proud.”

Funnily enough, the moment Diggle leaves her and she’s left to her own devices, she feels her confidence returning. The firing range is already full with the other trainees who are completing their assessment and watching them run through the course is comforting. Familiar. Squaring her shoulders, Felicity puts her name down at registration and collects her weapon before making her way to the prep room. 

“You’ve done this a million times. No reason to be worried today,” she murmurs under her breath as she gets ready. “Point and shoot, nothing else to it. Except... timing, and accuracy, and speed and Jesu-” 

Her name blares over the speakers, interrupting her before she goes into full spiral of doubt. An instructor pops his head through the doorway that leads to the firing course and checks his clipboard. “Smoak? You ready?” 

Five stages, 60 rounds. She can do this. She _has done_ this, and had even surprised Digg with her practice run. Felicity blows a stray piece of hair out of her face, holsters her gun and nods. “Sir, yes sir!” 


	2. Chapter 2

**November 2013, Quantico, FBI Training Facility**

Felicity misses her graduation from the FBI Academy. 

Not because she woke up late, or because she got a bad case of food poisoning, or anything that could even remotely be her fault. If that had been the case, she wouldn’t be as angry as she is about it, nor would she be mentally listing the nine different ways she knows how to dismember someone with a paperclip. Theoretically, of course. Because she’s not going to actually dismember the people responsible for her missing her graduation ceremony. 

Because the people responsible for her missing her FBI graduation are the _FBI._

Earlier that morning, as she was deciding what to wear, a trainee handed her a nondescript envelope that had requested her presence at a meeting, subject matter classified. She knew better than to defy a direct order and seeing as she just, _literally_ just passed all her assessments, forgoing the ceremony seemed like the smarter option.

Which how she ends up in one of the mock-interrogation rooms they used for their training exercises.

“You know, this is getting really old,” she calls out into the empty room, cringing at the way her voice bounces off the walls. “This whole, ‘keep Felicity in a stupid, boring room to intimidate her’ thing? You already did this once, or did you forget?” 

The door to the room swings open. “We didn’t forget.” 

Felicity yelps at the intrusion, spinning her head around so quick she thinks she might have given herself whiplash. Her jaw drops. 

“Digg? _Traitor!”_ she whispers, betrayed. “You? You put me through _hell_ for five months,” she sputters. “And now you won’t let me graduate? Really? Couldn’t whatever this is have waited till after the ceremony?” 

“If I had my way, you’d be out there right now with the rest of them because you deserve it. You worked your butt off, Smoak. I’m really proud of you,” Digg sighs. 

He makes a ‘stand up’ motion with his fingers and he looks almost... defeated. “But my hands were tied, and the higher ups - well, they’re the ones doing the tying. So you’re coming with me instead.” 

Felicity purses her lips as she slowly gets to her feet. She’s not letting Diggle off the hook just yet, but she has to know one thing first. “But I _did_ graduate, right? All... above board and legit and um, I can bust through doors and yell stuff like, ‘Hey, freeze! FBI Special Agent Felicity Smoak!’?” 

Digg cracks a smile. “Yes, Smoak. You did. You’re just not -”

“- attending the ceremony.” she finishes for him with a disappointed huff. “That’s fine, whatever. I didn’t walk for my high school or MIT graduation either, so why shake things up now?” 

The wrinkle that forms on Diggle’s forehead suggests he wants to comment about that, but then he shakes his head and gets the door, holding it open for her to walk through. 

“Hey, put your game face on, okay, Smoak?” he murmurs as they exit the room and then takes the lead. He doesn’t say anything else after that and merely indicates for her to follow him. 

The warning is concerning. If this were a routine check-in (and they’ve had a few of those, due to her unusual method of recruitment), Digg wouldn’t look so perturbed. She’s made it out of every single one of _those_ relatively unscathed. 

“What’s going on, Digg?” she asks, keeping up with Diggle’s long strides easily despite being a whole head shorter than him. “Am I in trouble?” 

“No,” he says. Then hums under his breath and reassesses, “I don’t think so, at least. We were both called in and they didn’t tell me why. If you're in trouble, then I am too.”

“You jump, I jump, Jack,” Felicity recites brightly. And to her dismay, Diggle doesn’t seem to get the reference. She makes a mental note to make more pop-culturally educated friends in the future.

If she has a future. Wow, that's bleak. 

Diggle leads them to a bank of elevators, swiping his ID badge for access and then when they get in, hits button that will take them to the S level. 

“Um, I don’t have clearance for that,” Felicity reminds him. “I barely have clearance for Basic Ops, I definitely don’t have access to Spec. Ops.” 

Diggle doesn’t answer her, and quite honestly, she’s getting really annoyed by this whole being in the dark thing. She doesn’t like not knowing things, she hates mysteries, and doesn’t she deserve to know what's going on if she’s giving up her own damn graduation ceremony for this? 

She’s about to say exactly these things to Digg when the doors slide open. Two unfamiliar agents stand right outside, waving them through as Diggle flashes his badge at them. Badgeless herself, she plasters what she thinks is a friendly grin on her face, and surprisingly the two agents wave her through as well. 

Diggle makes his way swiftly through the maze of corridors until they get to a door, and then his ID badge beeps them through. “Remember,” he tells her before he opens the door. “Game face, Smoak.” 

An older, rather distinguished looking male agent greets them inside, politely shaking both Digg’s and her hand, before gesturing for them to take a seat at the table in the centre of the room. A wall of monitors, currently blank, adorn an entire wall, while an array of servers and CPUs idle against another. 

This is definitely some sort of base of operations, Felicity surmises. Intriguing. 

“Welcome, Special Agent Diggle, Special Agent Smoak, I’m Senior Special Agent Lance. Thanks for coming in on such short notice.” 

Felicity’s heard of this guy. Quentin Lance, one of the most decorated FBI agents of his time. He specialised in deep-cover operations and espionage and his skills had been so unmatched that instead of letting him retire, the FBI had given him his entire department to run in order to keep an eye on their ongoing missions. 

“Not a problem, sir. Happy to help,” Diggle’s saying, and Felicity nods in agreement. 

Her heart hammers in her chest, because Diggle said _help,_ as though they’re both going to part of some mission, and it’s exciting but also, she _just_ graduated? Is this - normal? 

“Good. Congratulations, by the way, Smoak, I hear you’ve just graduated from the Academy.” The smile on his face is warm and genuine, and it reminds her of something a father would bestow upon his favourite child - not that Felicity has any first hand experience of that. 

“Thank you,” she grins back at him, then adds hastily, “Sir.” 

“Okay, let me cut to the chase, since I know you’re both probably curious as to why I’ve called you in. Just a reminder, everything you hear today is highly classified. No one else can know the details about what I’m about to tell you.” Lance grabs a remote off the top of one of the servers. He presses a button. “Let’s begin.” 

The monitors on the wall flicker on, and an unfamiliar logo, captioned by Russian characters appears on the screens. “The Odessa Mafia,” Lance points out with a laser pointer. “Is one of the most prominent and dominant Russian criminal organizations operating in the US.” 

“Their activities are wide-ranging, from your ordinary street-level drug trafficking, to more sophisticated international arms deals, and more severely, clandestine military type operations. Think government destabilization, inciting wars - anything to create chaos in the world. We’ve known about their existence for years, but they’re slippery, and highly skilled at what they do.” 

He clicks through another slide, and an image of a burly man, bearded, and very clearly _dead_ pops up. 

“Gross,” Felicity blurts out, and then blushes when both Diggle and Lance turn to her with identical amused looks on their faces. ‘Not that I’m taking death lightly, or anything, but you know, he’s got dead eyes. Gross.” 

Lance shakes his head, turning back to the screens. “Three months ago, this unlucky fellow popped up on our radar. Sergei Sharapov, known Odessa Brigadier for the Starling City branch-”

“Hey, I used to work in Starling!” Felicity quips, and then quickly snaps her mouth shut, grimacing. God _damn_ it. “Sorry, sorry, carry on, please.” 

“Like I said, he's one of the few known members of the Odessa. He was found dumped in an alley, single GSW to his chest. At the time, our contact within Starling picked up chatter among the crime gangs that his death could be related to very highly classified government information that had been stolen by an unknown person a week before his death.” 

“We thought nothing of it at first, a lot of useless information gets passed down through the grapevine, until two weeks ago,” Lance pauses, pulling out manilla folders from a briefcase and handing one each to Digg and Felicity. “We intercepted a call, scrambled and through an encrypted line, between the _Pakhan_ \- the head of the mafia - and the Starling City’s _Sovietnik_ \- leader of the local branch.” 

Felicity opens the folder and scans through the document in front of her. It’s a transcript of a call. 

“The Odessa are looking for a hacker,” Felicity reads with interest. Oh, how she’s missed getting her hands dirty in good, old, classic hacking. It’s why she asked to specialise in CSIT, so she could go back to her first love - but this... this is juicy. “They’re looking for someone who can find out who stole the classified information in the first place.” 

“That’s correct.” 

Felicity looks at Lance, then at Digg, narrowing her eyes, before hazarding a guess. “And you think that person is... me?” 

Lance smiles that fatherly smile of his again, which Felicity’s starting to suspect is less of a fatherly smile and more of a _‘I’m going to have you eating out of my palm once we’re done here’_ smile. 

No wonder he’s so good at his job. 

“The Starling City branch of Odessa is one of the most secretive ones in the country. We don’t even know who runs it; this transcript is the first in years that we’ve even heard of the _Sovietnik_. We think he's military trained, and of course, very intelligent.”

“A ghost,” Felicity murmurs. “Except not so much anymore, ‘cause of this transcript.” 

“Precisely. So you can appreciate that getting a hold of this call has opened up new avenues in terms of investigating them. We don’t know what this classified information is, who they got it from, and what they intend to do with it, but this has now become our top priority and as you can imagine, it’s very time sensitive. We don’t have many agents with your particular skill set -”

Felicity preens with pride.

“- and we don’t have time to train our more experienced agents to do something you were able to do even _before_ you were recruited. Your training records are exemplary. Impressing Special Agent Diggle here isn’t easy, and you clearly have, so despite your lack of experience, we want you to be part of this.”

Felicity, buzzing with palpable excitement, turns to Diggle. Only to have her enthusiasm slightly dampened by the frown and apparent displeasure on his face. 

“Agent Lance, you’re not serious?” Diggle protests gruffly. “This is the Odessa we’re talking about. Ruthless. Take no prisoners. We’re basically going in blind here, and we don’t even know who the main players are. Agent Smoak has never been in the field!” 

Felicity fumes, scowling in her seat. Wow, thanks, Diggle. Thanks so much for the vote of confidence. Sure, she’s a rookie, but she can handle herself. It’s just a little bit of hacking, after all. She can probably do it in her sleep!

“Well, we all have to start somewhere, don’t we?” Lance responds with nonchalance. He turns to her, ignoring the frown that looks like it’s about to be permanently etched into Diggle’s face. “So, what do you think? Are you up for it? 

Felicity blinks at the man. Is she _up_ for it? Is newly minted Special Agent Felicity Smoak up for a high risk, very classified, IT-focused FBI sting operation? How is this even a question? 

“Special Agent Diggle will be with you every step of the way,” Lance offers, misinterpreting her hesitation as a sign that she needs more convincing. He sends a look towards her training officer. “That is, of course, if he accepts the assign-”

“Of course, I accept,” Diggle interrupts quickly, and Felicity feels a sense of relief cascade over her. 

Not just because she’s spent the most amount of time with him over the last five months training under him so she already trusts him implicitly, but also because the look on Diggle’s face, mulish and thunderous, implies that he’d murder anyone who would suggest anything else. 

It soothes the sting that accompanied his earlier lack of confidence in her abilities. Just a little. 

Felicity nods. “Then I accept too.”

“Excellent.” Lance clasps both his hands together. “You’ll both receive a full briefing in an hour with our deep-cover specialists. Your training would have covered undercover operations, but this one -”

“Uh, deep cover?” Felicity repeats. Her back ramrod straight, she turns to Diggle, alarmed. Did Lance mention being in _deep-cover_ at all throughout his entire spiel? She’s sure he didn’t. “This isn’t just... a grab and go type of thing?” 

Diggle makes a noise in the back of his throat, the kind he makes when he’s particularly frustrated with her. The resigned sigh that leaves his lips speaks volumes. _Why do you think I was so against this?_

“No, not a grab and go,” Lance answers. “Like I said, we know next to nothing about whatever this stolen information is, and even less about how the Odessa works. Previous attempts at infiltrating them have failed, but this time, their need for a hacker has presented us with a unique opportunity to kill two birds with one stone. We cannot squander it. Are you having second thoughts, Special Agent Smoak?”

Second, third, hell, even fourth. She berates herself internally for not seeing this coming. The master of deep-cover operations himself had requested this meeting, how could she have _not_ put two and two together before this? 

Swallowing the smidgen of doubt that’s creeping in, Felicity shakes her head. 

“Nope, no second thoughts. Deep-cover within the Russian mafia. I so can do this.” 

Oh, _boy._

* * *

**January 2014, Starling City, Undisclosed Location**

Here’s the thing about being in charge of the Russian mafia: it’s not fun. Most of Oliver’s nights are spent alternating between tossing and turning from restless slumber, and waking up drenched in cold sweat from the nightmares that plague his subconscious when he does eventually tire himself out enough to snooze for more than twenty minutes at a time. 

He runs on an endless supply of coffee and distracts himself from the harsh reality of his current life by working out in the makeshift gym he constructed in their headquarters. It’s not ideal, so to speak, but it’s not like he has another choice. If he allows himself to dwell on the horrors he’s been responsible for, intentionally, and not intentionally, he’d probably have a break down every day. 

This week alone, he’s had to deal with three of his men who decided the Odessa weren't good enough for them anymore and had been dipping their toes into Triad waters. 

In the end, they happened to meet with very timely ‘accidents’, but the damage had been done. Displays of insubordination like theirs don't bode well for Oliver. As it stands, he’s already in a precarious position; an American heading a Russian gang, and if more of his men revolt the same way, who knows what might happen? 

And now, to add to his endless array of problems, this thing with the still-encrypted USB drive has turned out to be so much more trouble than he originally thought it would be. Sergei, as idiotic as he was, had been smart about protecting his source. It’s been months now, and nothing on the USB drive contained details of how to contact this person he originally got it from and Oliver is quite literally at his wits end trying to figure out how. 

He’s reached out to everyone he knows, and everyone he’s _not supposed_ to know, and still can’t get anywhere with it. The guy who gave Sergei the information is clearly a professional and sometimes, in rare moments of self doubt, Oliver wonders if he’d been too hasty in getting rid of Sergei. 

The door to his office swings open suddenly, startling him from his less than pleasant thoughts. 

“Happy New Year, boss,” Anatoly greets, strutting in. He drops a bottle of vodka on Oliver’s desk and grins. “A present, from the missus.”

Oliver rolls his eyes. “Which one?” 

“The one you turned down.” 

“We know she only had eyes for you, brother,” Oliver laughs. Anatoly was one of the very few men he actually likes within the Odessa. Dependable, loyal, and had never once held the fact that Oliver isn’t Russian against him. Even saved his life once. 

“Uh, what can I do for you today?” Oliver asks, suddenly wary when Anatoly draws up a chair to sit opposite him at his desk. Oliver feels for the recessed button under his desk and runs his finger over it. He presses it. “Did something happen with the latest arms shipment from Ukraine?” 

“No, nothing like that,” Anatoly assures him. “But, I do have something you might appreciate. For that USB problem of yours.” 

Oliver perks up. “Yeah? Cause it’s been a fucking disaster ever since that asshole Sergei brought it to me. What do you have?" 

“A number.” Anatoly unfolds a piece of paper and slides it over to Oliver. 

A phone number has been scribbled hastily on it, along with the phrase ‘Ghost Fox Goddess’. Oliver arches an eyebrow at his friend. “Okay?” 

“You know the break in at Kord Industries two months ago? When the entire security system failed because some hacker got in?”

Oliver nods. “The break-in that allowed the Triad to get away with next-generation weapon technology?”

“Yes. That was _her._ ” Anatoly jabs a finger at the piece of paper. “Palmer Tech’s servers going down, losing them billions of dollars overnight? Her too. And last week, when the SCPD lost power and had their communications scrambled -” 

“Let me guess, her too?” Oliver murmurs, getting the hint. “How do you know it’s a her?"

“Uh, _Goddess_?” Anatoly scoffs. “Come on. Criminals don’t have time for cat-fishing.”

“You know what, you’re probably right,” Oliver agrees with a chuckle. “So you think this Ghost Fox Goddess person can figure out who gave Sergei the USB drive?” Oliver asks. “When fifteen different hackers have tried and failed? Not a single one of them have even managed to pass my initial test, but you think _she_ can?” 

Anatoly shrugs, but then fixes him with a stern stare. “What do you have to lose, _comrade?_ She has already proven that she has _some_ skills, who knows what else she’s managed to do undetected. Give your silly test to her, if she passes, then you know she’s the real deal. If not, you’re back in the same place, with one less option to have to think about.” 

The string of numbers mocks him as it lies unassuming on his desk. Oliver knows Anatoly’s right. There’s no harm in calling the number, but something tugs at him in the back of his mind, his gut churning with trepidation. He trusts his gut - he has to, in this line of work - but at the same time, it’s been six months of getting nowhere with the drive and he’s kind of desperate. 

“Fine,” he decides. “Call her. Now. Put her on speaker.” 

Anatoly nods, already pulling his phone out. The line rings once, and then it connects immediately. 

A very _clearly_ female voice answers. “ _Hello.”_

“Ghost Fox Goddess?” Anatoly asks. 

_“No idea what you’re talking about,”_ she responds, and Oliver detects a hint of amusement in the lilt of her voice. She doesn’t hang up however, and it strikes him that she hasn’t bothered masking her voice, so she’s either really confident, or really stupid. 

He’s inclined to put money on the former. 

“A mutual acquaintance gave me this number. You might be able to help me with a problem,” Anatoly says, and Oliver nods his approval. 

_“Oh? And who might this acquaintance be?”_

“China White.” 

Oliver tilts his head at this piece of information. Anatoly hadn’t mentioned China's involvement with this, but it shouldn't have come as a surprise. The Triad has been at odds with them for a very long time and recently has been inconveniently mixed up in way too many Odessa-related business.

_“Wonderful. How is Ms. Chien Na Wei?”_

Using China’s real name is smart. It’s a subtle show of power, letting them know that this Ghost Fox Goddess woman is aware the more inner workings of the Triad.

“She is very dead,” Anatoly drawls, smirking in his seat. 

_“Well, that’s unfortunate. I hope the afterlife treats her a lot better.”_

Not even a flicker of emotion comes through the speaker, and that’s what cements it for Oliver. The reference to the Chinese culture speaks of an intelligence that extends far beyond book smarts, and being unphased by the implication of murder is a sign of her professionalism. Suddenly, Oliver’s intrigue grows and with heightened interest, he leans forward and motions for Anatoly to move things along.

“Enough about her,” Anatoly says sharply, and proceeds with the same script he’s recited for the other fifteen hackers before her. “I require your unique... skills to complete a project of mine. Your discretion is paramount, of course, and you will be paid handsomely should you succeed.” 

_“Oh, I'll succeed,”_ she laughs, a pleasant tinkle of mirth that Oliver doesn’t feel is suited _at all_ for the criminal mastermind she’s claiming to be. 

_“Which means I_ don’t _agree to your terms. I want half of the payment now, and half when I’m done. We meet at a location of my choosing, you can bring one person for backup.”_

Anatoly bristles at her tone, unsurprisingly. He growls into the phone. “Listen here -” 

_“Take it or leave it. Five million now, five million later. I’ll send you an account number that you will only have 24 hours to deposit the money into. Once the time runs out and if I don’t see the money, you will never be able to contact me again.”_

Anatoly gawks at Oliver, bewildered, and it almost makes Oliver want to laugh out loud. It’s been a really long time since Oliver’s encountered someone as _unexpected_ as this Ghost Fox Goddess person and it’s like he’s being infused with a new lease on life. A strange yearning stirs in him, his desire to know more about this woman growing tenfold.

_Say yes,_ he mouths to Anatoly. If anything, only because he wants to meet her. He wonders if she's hot. She _sounds_ like she's hot. He makes a ‘go on’ motion with his hands. _We’ll pay her._

A very disgruntled Anatoly frowns at his phone like it’s personally offended him. “Fine, you have a deal. Send all the information to -”

_“Don’t worry, I have everything I need.”_

They called her on an encrypted, secure burner phone, so she shouldn’t be able to trace the call, but a second later the phone vibrates with an incoming text message.

Huh. This woman is - she’s _very good._ Oliver grins, wholly accepting of the fact that this woman is going to keep surprising them. 

_“There you go. You should have all the details you need. Money first, then me. Not that you’re paying for me, but for my services, um - that doesn't sound any better, you know what, never mind. Nice doing business with you, see you soon, Anatoly Knyazev.”_

The call ends abruptly, and the two men stare at each other, rendered silent, jaws hanging open. 

Not only had she traced them, she’s obviously figured out who she was talking to. Which under other circumstances, should be concerning, but Oliver’s more preoccupied by the thrill of _excitement_ that the entire exchange has resulted in. He's almost vibrating with it. 

“Oliver, I feel like this girl is going to give us hell,” Anatoly mutters, glaring at his phone. "She sounds like trouble." 

Oh yeah. she does. 

And Oliver’s really, really, looking forward to it.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lil' bit of a filler, but necessary to move things along. Have a good holiday break, everyone! Thank you for reading!! 
> 
> I'm available on Twitter for a chat like, always: @griever_11


	3. Chapter 3

**January 2013, Starling City, Felicity and Diggle’s Apartment**

“You know, in every scenario I’ve ever imagined that involved letting a man see me in my underwear for the first time in like, _a year_ , this has never once crossed my mind.” 

“Just goes to show how little you know about being in deep cover.” Diggle shrugs, taking her complaint in his stride as he lines yet another wire along the band of her bra. “Could be worse though, if you think about it.” 

“How?” Felicity demands, lifting her arms up obediently as Diggle loops the wire through a hole in the side panel to keep it in place. “How could it _possibly_ be worse than my _handler_ -”

“Partner.”

“ _Fine,_ partner, attaching really uncomfortable wires _inside_ my bra so that he can listen in on a conversation I’m going to be having with the very scary _Russian mafia?”_

Okay, so maybe her voice is higher pitched than usual and hovering on the side of hysterical, but in her defence she’s had three coffees today and it’s barely even noon, and seriously. _Russian. Mafia._

“Well, you could be wearing your granny panties. That would be worse.” 

Felicity squawks with indignance. “Digg! Those weren’t mine! I already told you, I don’t know how they got mixed up with my load! Also, don’t be mean, I’m sure those were perfectly adequate, comfortable panties for whoever they belonged to.” 

“‘Kay, we gotta stop talking about panties now,” Diggle grunts, finally stepping away from her, giving her a once over, _very professionally,_ to make sure nothing looks out of place when she takes the meeting with the mafia. 

They’re using a wire for the first time, not wanting to take any chances with the Odessa. Their previous jobs for other criminal organisations hadn’t been as important; mere stage-setting, but what they’re about to do today is big. 

“Hey, _you_ brought the panties up.” Felicity mutters, pulling her shirt back over her head. “How long do we have until they get here?” 

“Twenty minutes, relax, okay? Treat this just like the other ones. You do your thing, crack whatever needs cracking, and then feed it back to me, okay? You’re already a pro at this.”

“Yeah, but _this -_ this is the motherlode, Digg. It’s what we’ve been working towards for the last two months. You’re telling me you’re not even the slightest bit nervous?” 

Because _she_ is. Diggle may be right in saying that they’ve done this numerous times already in the past couple of months - ‘this’ being hacking into whatever criminal organisations need her to hack into, and then forwarding everything to the SCPD or the FBI to have them deal with the fallout - but now that they have the _Odessa's_ attention?

Whole new ball game. 

From what Lance had told them, the FBI barely had any intelligence on the gang and how they worked as an organisation. When she backtraced Anatoly’s call, she’d been surprised to find that the line had been encrypted and secured by very sophisticated technology.

That sort of protection was far more effort than she expected from them and consequently, was the first sign that they were dealing with the big leagues now. If that hadn't been enough, the five million dollars that appeared in her FBI sanctioned offshore account an hour after their conversation, solidified the fact that the Odessa were _legit._

It’s thrilling and nerve wracking at the same time. If she were doing this alone, she’d be wondering if she was getting way in over her head. But Diggle’s here, and he’s proven to be a solid partner and backup in all their prior heists, so Felicity, aka Ghost Fox Goddess, version 2.0 anyway, while nervous, is _so_ ready for this. 

“I’ve always thought it was strange that my cover identity is basically... me. Pre-FBI me, at least. Is that normal? Is it weird that the deep-cover team never bothered to set me up with a new identity?" She wonders out loud as Diggle goes through his final checks on their equipment. 

“The closer it is to the truth, the easier it is to lie,” Diggle imparts sagely. “You already had a reputation on the deep web as Ghost Fox Goddess, I guess they wanted to capitalise on that. It’s a lot easier to build on an identity that already exists, than to construct one from scratch, especially when it comes to anything to do with cyber-crime. I'm sure they did their due diligence.”

Felicity pouts, plucking at her shirt absent-mindedly. "But it means that after this op, Ghost Fox Goddess is totally burned.” 

Diggle quirks an eyebrow at her. “Why do you care if your online persona is burned? You thinking about getting back into the illegal hacking business again if this FBI thing doesn't work out?"

She stills in the middle of tugging on her black, knee high platform boots. Right, she can see how he might misconstrue her earlier lament. “Um, no. Of course not. Obviously. I'm so totally on the straight and narrow now. I’ve just grown attached to the name, that’s all. I can pick a new one.”

“Special Agent Felicity Smoak isn’t good enough for you?” Diggle teases, folding his arms so his ginormous biceps bulge out. 

“I-”

She’s interrupted by a flash of light glowing from one of the monitors she set up in her apartment and immediately they both jump into action. 

“He’s early,” Diggle says as he takes his position at the computers, no longer teasing. He pulls up the surveillance footage, flicks the switch to turn the listening device on. “You ready for this?” 

Felicity feels the faint tremor of electricity travel through the wire around her chest, nodding to confirm that it’s working. She fits a discreet earbud into her ear, tapping it twice to activate it and lets her hair fall over her ears to obscure it. 

“You’re online,” Diggle tells her. “He’s pulling into the alley now, take your laptop and get downstairs.” 

Felicity leaves the apartment with her bag and her laptop, taking the stairs two steps at a time. Adrenaline builds in her, rushing through her veins. This is it. 

The FBI had set her and Diggle up in a very spacious loft above an ex-fire station that to the public, had been condemned by the city council. Coupled with a crumbling exterior and the various warning signs about the presence of toxic levels of asbestos, it had been the perfect site for a safe house, and, as it turns out, the wide open warehouse-like space on the ground level underneath their apartment, is a perfect spot for holding meetings with the Russian mafia. 

Who would have thought? 

“In position, where is he?” Felicity murmurs as she makes her way to the lone table in the middle of the empty space and sets her laptop down.

Diggle had insisted that having a chair there would slow down an escape if there was a need for one, and provide the Russians with a weapon they didn’t need so they didn’t bring one down. Sighing, Felicity arches her back and rolls her shoulders, hoping that whatever it is she needs to do gets done quick. 

Digg’s voice comes through her earbud crisp and clear. _“They just got out of the car - there are two of them. Looks like one’s staying behind though. The other is making his way around the back now. That’s probably Anatoly.”_

Allowing her backpack to slide off her shoulders, she looks around critically. They did a walk-through late last night, making sure everything was secure for the meet, but things happen and she’s not leaving her own safety up to chance. When she’s sure nothing is out of place, she dips hand into the pocket of her cargo pants, feels for the small remote that controls the one working door to the ground level, and presses the button. 

“Ghost Fox Goddess!” A gruff, accented voice echoes through the room as a man steps through the doorway. He’s bearded, short in stature, but no less menacing than one expects someone from the mafia would be. 

“Anatoly Knyazev.” The Russian flows off her tongue easily and from the slight turn of the other man’s lips, she can tell she’s impressed him. Good. 

“It seems you already know more about me than I do about you,” he says as he approaches the table. “Why is it that there is nothing about you that I can find out from anywhere? Anyone?” 

Felicity ignores him for a moment, distracted by the small palm-sized hard drive in his hand that is very clearly _not_ the USB drive that she and Digg are expecting. Interesting. She looks up from his hand and tilts her head, addressing his earlier question. 

“There’s a reason _Ghost_ is part of my name,” she says. 

“I can respect that,” Anatoly grunts, placing the hard drive on the metal table. “Are you going to just do this here?” He indicates to her laptop, then gestures to the empty space around them. “That’s all you need?” 

Diggs speaks into her ear. _“Infrared sensors just scanned the drive, nothing suspicious. No transmitting frequencies. He’s not bugged. You’re clear.”_

“Yup.” Felicity nods. She picks up the hard drive, noting that it weighs as much as an ordinary drive should. No fake bombs this time then. It’s a _little_ reassuring - never let it be said that she doesn't learn from her mistakes. The scar from _that_ particular encounter still hurts sometimes. Damn Triad.

“I'm assuming this is what you need my help with?” she asks. 

She doesn’t wait for him to answer, plugging in the drive into her air-gapped laptop. She’s got this entire process down to an art, perfecting it over the past couple of months that she’s had to live as Ghost Fox Goddess: Clone, hack, return. 

Except this time, the stakes are higher and she pays careful attention to everything that appears on her screen. 

She clones the drive the moment it’s connected, triggering the command that will save the entirety of its contents into a hidden folder on the laptop. She encounters the secure barrier she assumes she’s supposed to be breaking into and looks up at Anatoly curiously. 

“This is military grade 256-bit encryption,” she remarks. “What’s on this that needs that much security?” 

Anatoly narrows her eyes at her. “Can you do it or not?” 

“Of course, I can,” she scoffs. She’s tempted to talk him through her process and bombard him with technical jargon just to annoy him for doubting her abilities, but as she brings up her algorithm and starts running her protocol, she notes with equal amounts of interest and dismay that the size of the contents in the file is... non-existent. 

The drive is _empty._

_“Is there a problem, Felicity? What’s on the drive? Nothing's appearing on my end.”_

“Um.” Her fingers fly over her keyboard, ignoring Digg’s voice in her ear demanding a response. A trickle of sweat beads down the side of her forehead. For the first time in a long time, she has to run her protocol again, just to make sure. 

“What now?” Anatoly growls, just a little menacingly, and a razor sharp chill of awareness travels down her spine. “We paid you five million dollars for -” 

“You’re asking me to hack into a virtually unhackable drive. Give me _one_ second,” Felicity mutters, glaring at the man. In hindsight, interrupting someone from the mafia probably isn’t the best idea, but she hates it when her skills are called into question, and even more so when it’s her skills with technology.

_“Be careful, Felicity.”_

Digg’s warning is unwarranted, because true to her word, it only takes another second for her to confirm her initial findings. 

“The drive is empty,” she announces for both Anatoly and Digg’s benefit. The empty folder on her laptop mocks her, and with her indignation flaring, she pulls the drive out, rounds the table and shoves it against Anatoly’s chest hard enough that he has to take a few steps back. The man, at least, has the decency to look a little shocked.

_“Felicity-”_

“I don’t know what you’re playing at, but I don’t like you wasting my time,” she seethes. She’d gotten all pumped up for this, fuelled by excitement and anticipation and _relief_ at finally getting a lead after two months of being undercover and then _this?_

_This_ is what they bring her? A big fat _nothing?_ It’s rude and downright offensive. Hell, she let Digg see her in her _underwear_ for this! 

“You can take your _stupid_ drive -”

_“Uh, Felicity, his partner...”_

“- shove it up your mafia ass -”

_“Agent Smoak! You’re about to -”_

“- and leave! Right now! Before I -”

And right then, the door that Felicity _thought_ she’d put on lockdown slams open. The sound of metal hitting metal clanging loudly makes her reel backwards, cringing. 

Anatoly whirls around the same time her gaze lands on the intruder. A man walks through the doorway, tall, well-built, a gun dangling in his hand. Her entire body goes rigid as she slips seamlessly into _fight_ mode, calling upon her months of brutal training at the Academy. Her heart thuds erratically under her chest as her hand moves on autopilot to reach for her own gun that she had tucked into the waistband of her jeans.

She presses her lips together, recalling some of her very rudimentary undercover training from the Academy. Assess the situation, maintain cover for as long as possible. Only take action when it’s absolutely necessary. 

Next to her, oblivious to her internal conflict, Anatoly lets out a bark of laughter. “You said I could bring backup, no?” 

“Yeah, but why is your backup walking _in here?_ ” she hisses indignantly, irritated by his nonchalance. “I didn't do anything that warrants backup, all I did was ask you to leave!” 

If she makes it out of what is slowly turning into a gigantic mess, she’s running a full-spectrum diagnostic check on all their equipment back in her apartment, because Diggle obviously missed the fact that Anatoly had been communicating with his partner the _entire_ time he was with her. How else would this guy know when to enter? And how did he get in?

“You were assaulting me with my own hard drive,” Anatoly drawls, tossing the hard drive in the air. “I got scared.” 

_“I’m on my way down, hang tight,”_ Diggle tells her in a slightly panicked voice. _“Don’t lose control of the situation.”_

Her fingers close around the butt of her gun, ready for anything. “I suggest you stay right there,” she calls out to the newcomer. Surprisingly, the man obeys and stops in his tracks. Trying her luck, she nods towards the gun in his hand. “And there’s no need for that.” 

“If I put my gun down, will you let me come closer?” 

_Wait._

She knows him. Maybe? His face is half-hidden in the shadows that flicker in the barely there light of the warehouse so she can’t quite make his features out to be sure. He has an American accent, which is strange considering it’s the Russian mafia she’s dealing with. But that aside, the cocky, suggestive smile on his face also pulls at something in the back of her mind. Confusion and fuzzy recognition floods through her system. 

“I’d rather you stayed right there,” Felicity cautions. “Before someone gets hurt.” 

“I don’t think you’re in a position to be making any sort of demands right now,” the man says in a voice that oozes confidence and charm and _sex_. "You're outnumbered, if you haven't noticed. Besides, what can you _possibly_ be hiding under there that could hurt me?” the man asks with a lazy, dangerous smile. 

He doesn’t bother hiding the slow, dragging journey his head takes as he looks down her body before making its way back up to smirk at her. Heat skitters over her skin, keen awareness rifling the fine hairs on her arm. 

Oh. She’s _aroused._

_"Don’t react, Felicity he’s trying to get a rise out of you. I’m right outside if you need me.”_

Thanks, Digg. As if she doesn’t know that. She’s unnerved, and just a tad grossed out by his obvious leering, but she totally has the situation under control. Kind of. As long as they don’t end up in, like, hand-to-hand combat - the guy looks super _solid_ and would totally put her on the floor in a second - she’ll be fine. 

“Well, I’m going to leave this here so that I can come closer.” The man slowly crouches down, laying his gun on the floor before getting back up. His eyes never leave hers, his gaze burning. “No one’s hurting anyone today, I promise, okay?” He holds both his hands up in the universal sign of surrender as he comes forward. 

Which is when Felicity really gets a good, unobstructed look at him, and, as she studies him, decides that he definitely looks a little familiar. 

And he’s _hot._ Like, stunningly so. 

She takes him in, from his cheekbones to the sloping jawline hidden behind a dusting of stubble, just enough of a shadow that lends an air of mystery and danger about him. His eyes are bright blue, the corners of which are crinkling in mirth as he continues to smirk obnoxiously at her. 

He has a thick head of short hair, neat, but not expressly so, still sticking up at the front like - 

The realisation of who she’s looking at hits her like a freight train. It’s no wonder he looks familiar. 

Her voice comes out in a barely-there whisper, shrouded in awe and disbelief. “Oh my God, you’re _Oliver Queen.”_

* * *

**January 2014, Starling City, Ex-Firehouse**

It’s been a long time since Oliver personally attended meetings for the Odessa. As _Sovietnik,_ he usually left them to be dealt with by his underlings, but this Ghost Fox Goddess person had been intriguing enough over the phone that he decided to come along with Anatoly as backup. 

And now that he’s seen her in person, he’s _glad_ he did. 

The moment Oliver his gaze lands on Felicity, he’s overcome by a rush of heat, an unfamiliar tingling that builds within him, a slow, rolling rumble of awareness, prickling over his skin as he walks closer and closer to her. 

He doesn’t even see Anatoly there. Just _her._ Ghost Fox Goddess - a mouthful to say, and judging from what little he knows about her, she’s probably a _handful_ too - is _truly,_ a goddess. She’s small, slim, and he detects a hint of muscle under the tight fit of her black tank top that suggests that she’s no couch potato.

Her blonde hair falls just below her shoulders and her pink lips are pressed together in a fierce scowl as she glares at him with anger; calculating, expressive blue eyes behind the reflective lenses of her glasses. 

From the way she’s holding her position, not backing away from his approach, he knows she can handle herself. Her legs, clad in the skinniest pair of black jeans and the sexiest platform boots he’s ever seen in his life, are a shoulders’ width apart, in what is a clear fighting stance. One of her hands is balled in a fist by her side, her other hidden behind her - most likely reaching for a concealed weapon. 

Quite unfair considering she asked him to put _his_ weapon away. 

Safe to say, she’s not what he expected at all when he thought he was meeting with a _hacker_. Besides the cute pair of glasses perched on her nose, nothing about her screams nerdy criminal mastermind. And if he's being pedantic, nothing about her remotely resembles the women who usually capture his attention, and yet... 

_Everything_ about her is calling out to him; singing a song that only his body is attuned to and the heat and want that runs through him is positively crackling. He’s not even aware of what he’s saying to her or how he’s responding to her demands and her questions, letting his mouth run on autopilot, because he’s busy trying to make sense of the strange, captivating way she’s holding his entire being hostage.

At some point, against every single of his well-honed instincts, he even puts his gun down because he wants to get closer to her, he wants to know everything about her and if that means he has to be unarmed to do so, then so be it. 

And _then_ his name falls from her lips in a breathy murmur and the spell completely breaks. 

“Oh my God, you’re Oliver Queen.” 

Her sharp intake of breath jolts him out of his stupor and it succeeds in flushing out the heady fog of lust from his system. 

Yes, he’s _Oliver Queen,_ ruthless killer, head of Starling’s Odessa, _not_ a lovesick teenager enslaved by his hormones. He pulls himself together just in time to notice that the hacker is looking at him with a lot less a vehemence in her gaze and instead is now staring at him with focused curiosity. 

He shakes off the last vestiges of desire and frowns at her. “You know who I am.” 

“I live here, of course I know who you are,” she says with a hint of wonder in her voice. Anatoly swivels on his feet, question in his eyes. Felicity runs a hand through her silky, golden hair - fuck, _concentrate,_ fool - and Oliver swears he can see the gears turning as she slowly tries to put things together. 

And so in his best interest and in an attempt to prevent her from saying or doing anything else that might complicate matters for him, Oliver storms over to where she and Anatoly are standing, ignoring her squeak of surprise and he pulls the hard drive out of Anatoly’s hand. 

He draws himself up to his full height, sets his shoulders in a way that he knows makes him look intimidating. “Who I am doesn’t matter, but what does is that you passed our test.” 

The small ‘o’ that her lips form at the revelation is adorable, which is almost instantly replaced by the furrow of her brow and then she’s glaring at him again, angry and fired up. 

“A _test?_ Why is it that everyone loves testing me? Huh? What is this? An audition? That’s not what I signed up for.” 

“We had to make sure you were the real deal.” 

“I _am_ the real deal!”

“We had no way of knowing that, you won’t even tell us your name.” 

She makes an adorable half-growl, half-exasperated sigh type of noise as she flings her hands in the air. “I - God, _okay,_ call me Felicity. Are you telling me that you gave me five million dollars to _test_ me, and were just hoping for the best? Are you _insane?”_

“I’ve been called that by some people, yes,” Oliver shrugs. 

_Felicity._

Whether it’s her real name or not, he can’t be sure, but he likes it. Good, strong consonants that roll smoothly like satin off the tip of his tongue. _Felicity._

He takes another step towards her, inexplicably drawn to the tantalising flush of red that he suspects is a result of burgeoning frustration. It creeps all the way down to her chest, disappearing under the edge of her tank top and suddenly Oliver’s throat is really, really, dry. 

“But I suppose that’s what keeps things interesting,” he murmurs, eventually dragging his eyes away from her. He cuts a glance to Anatoly and nods. “Come with me. I’ll take you to the real thing we need help with.”

“Uh, no.” 

What? 

Oliver clenches his jaw. No one tells _him_ no. His nostrils flare with irritation. Does she realise who she’s dealing with? 

“You don’t have a choice right now. You either come with me, or-”

“You’ll kill me? You mafia guys are so predictable. But my answer is still no. I don’t being lied to.” 

How can one person be this aggravating _and_ adorable at the same time? And why is she not more intimidated by him? He’s sent men much bigger and more dangerous than her cowering on their knees and yet this devastatingly infuriating woman has the audacity to stand right here _rolling her eyes_ at him? Calling him _predictable?_

His temper is a wild, untamed thing; an unfortunate remnant of his less than ideal past, and it rolls through him now like thunder on a stormy night. Most of the time he’s able to keep his fury in check, tightly coiled within him, but it unfurls now, slowly, but surely, with every additional second that Felicity stands there defying him. 

His fingers curl into fists. His jaw ticks. “Listen here, Felicity-” 

“Do you not want the rest of your money, Miss?” Anatoly interrupts them, his voice cutting sharply through the rising tension, also serving as a reminder that he’s still there with them too.

Felicity startles at the intrusion, clearly having forgotten about his presence as well. “Um-” 

Anatoly steps in between Oliver and Felicity, probably having sensed (accurately) the need for a mediator. He turns to Oliver first, shaking his head in a silent message, slightly amused, before fixing Felicity with a gentle, coaxing smile. 

“If you follow us and help us with our... problem, I’m sure we can work out some kind of compensation, on top of the balance of your fee, for the extra trouble we’ve caused you.” 

Earlier, before sending Anatoly in, they’d discussed a Plan B should things not go their way at the meet. 

Oliver didn’t really think they would have to resort to Plan B since he hadn’t expected her to actually pass his test. No one else had, after all. And then she did pass it, and he’d been distracted by her _everything,_ which resulted in his tumultuous emotions getting the better of him, that Plan B had completely slipped his mind. 

This is why he likes Anatoly. 

“I promise you no more tests,” Anatoly continues. “But you have to come with us, we don’t have what we want you to decrypt for us here.” 

Oliver watches as she regards them with suspicion, and rightfully so. She’s deflated somewhat, no longer simmering with anger, and it looks like she might be considering their offer seriously. 

Eventually, she exhales in a clear show of reluctance, pursing her lips. She tucks her hair behind her ear. “No more games?” 

“No more games,” Anatoly assures her before cocking his head at Oliver expectantly. Oliver nods in agreement. 

“Okay, I’ll come with you.” 

Finally! Oliver wants to scream out loud in frustration. He watches impatiently as Felicity packs up her laptop, slipping it into the backpack by her feet. She’s careful with her movements and Oliver doesn’t get to see what else in the bag. It irks him because he’s a paranoid bastard, but he tells himself that she’s just hacker for hire. A really good hacker for hire, who just happens to be ridiculously attractive. 

That's all. 

He offers her what he thinks is a nice, completely friendly smile as she walks past him, following Anatoly out of the warehouse. She scowls at him in return. 

Yeah, totally nothing to worry about. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so, so much for reading! All your feedback, comments and kudos are so very appreciated. I love you all!! 
> 
> May all of you ring in the new decade with heaps of joy and fun, see you in 2020!
> 
> Happy to chat over on the Twittersphere: @griever_11


	4. Chapter 4

**January 2014, Starling City, Unmarked Car**

_“- reckless and stupid, Smoak! We know nothing about the Odessa and you’re willingly following them into God knows where to break into God knows what? This isn’t part of the plan! You do not deviate from the plan without approval, did you forget that?”_

Seven minutes. 

_“What happened to your genius-level intelligence, huh? Where did that disappear to? Jesus Christ, talk about this is the last time I’m babysitting a rookie, I swear to God!”_

Seven minutes and thirty seconds. 

That’s how long Digg’s been reaming her out for, from the second she agreed to follow Oliver and Anatoly to wherever it is they want to take her to. Digg’s tracking her, of course, and following the Odessa’s car from a safe distance away, so she’s not in any real trouble, but that clearly isn’t stopping him from letting her know exactly how _dumb_ he thinks her decision to follow Oliver was. 

The worst part is that she can’t do anything about it (like, for example, turning her damn earbud off) because Oliver, as blase as he is acting, is watching like a hawk from the corner of his eye. 

They’re seated in the back of his nondescript car with very nice leather interiors, Felicity wedged right up next to the door, just in case. Oliver’s on the other side of the back seat, an arm stretched out over the top of the backrest, the other hand casually over his knee. He’s pretending to pay no attention to her, but she’s already caught him glancing her way more than once during the car ride, and it’s only been _seven minutes._

“ _I have to report back to the FBI in an hour, what am I supposed to tell them? Sorry, Agent Smoak’s decided to go gallivanting around with the Odessa despite being told to abort the mission? Or, sorry, my rookie agent decided that she knows better than her handler, who has years on her -”_

Oh, he’s back to being her handler now, is he? What happened to _partner?_ So that’s how it is, Digg? 

_“The least you could have done was wait until we get more intel about this Queen guy, how involved he is with the gang, and why he’s been pretending to be dead the last six years, but no, you had to just -”_

And that’s the other thing. When she connected the dots and figured out the man who’d come to back Anatoly up was Oliver Queen, she felt like her brain had stopped working. Because Oliver Queen went missing six years ago, and then had been declared dead in-absentia. 

But here he is, _sitting right next to her_ and boy, does she have questions. 

“You look worried,” Oliver says suddenly and Felicity guesses he’s not pretending to ignore her anymore. He makes a wiggly motion with his fingers, pointing at her face. “You have a thing - between your eyebrows.” 

“I just got into a car with members of the Russian mafia who are taking me to an unknown location. I think I’m allowed to be a little worried.” 

“She has a point,” Anatoly chimes in from the front, glancing at the two of them in the rearview mirror. _“I_ personally would be worried too.” 

Oliver shoots Anatoly a look, not appreciating his - partner’s? Colleague?’s - contribution to the conversation, but refrains from saying anything to him. Oliver turns to face Felicity fully, and though his facial expression is unreadable, there’s something swirling in the depths of his blue eyes that indicates he is bothered by _something._

She recalls Oliver’s burst of anger in the warehouse, their heated exchange when she said no to him, and it’s a reminder that this man sitting next to her probably isn’t the same Oliver Queen she used to read about in the Starling City rags.

This is Oliver Queen 2.0, recently resuscitated, who for some reason has become part of the Russian mafia. 

She still can’t quite believe it. 

Though, that being said, technically she’s Ghost Fox Goddess 2.0 too, ex-hacker extraordinaire who works for the government right now, so stranger things _have_ happened. 

“We’re going back to our home base,” Oliver mutters after a moment. He ignores the not very subtle clearing of Anatoly’s throat from the driver’s seat up front. He offers her what he must think it’s a comforting smile, but it comes off just shy of being smug. Still handsome though. Hngh.

“So now you know where we’re going. You don’t have to be worried.” 

_O-kay._ Is he... trying to reassure her? 

Nah, can’t be. Either Oliver actually trusts her and is concerned about her, or he’s not planning on letting her live after she’s done with whatever he needs her to do. 

She’s inclined to believe it’s the latter and that doesn’t provide her with much comfort. 

_“If you’ve decided to listen to me again, I’d suggest you be_ more _worried that he’s taking you to his headquarters,”_ Diggle snarks at her, and once more, she wishes she could turn him off. 

Just for like, one minute. 

“We’re almost there,” Oliver speaks again, all growly and gruff. 

Felicity studies his profile, takes in the clenched jaw and the single vein that she can see pulsing at his temple and she thinks that maybe, just maybe, he’s just as weirded out at this whole situation as she is.

Felicity licks her lips, feeling brave. “Hey, can I ask you a question?” 

_“And now you’re making casual conversation with him? Does Stockholm Syndrome manifest this quickly? God, where has all your training gone? You’re hopeless.”_

Oliver half-turns to her, and the tiniest smile graces his lips. She’s once again made aware of how handsome he truly is. Roguish. The pictures hanging in the lobby of Queen Consolidated do not do him any justice at _all._ It’s too bad he’s a bad guy, because he’s _so very attractive_ and it wouldn’t look good on her if, say, she accidentally slept with the enemy, would it? 

“You can ask your question, I might not answer,” Oliver says as he nods at her to go ahead. 

“Why is this thing that you want me to crack for you so important? Why did you need to _test_ me? And how did you get that hard drive? The encryption on it was ridiculous for a drive that’s _empty._ Rude, by the way.” 

Oliver’s eyes go wide, as if those weren’t the questions he thought she was going to ask him. He probably thought she was going to ask him about his _resurrection,_ for lack of a better word, and she would have, had she not had more important things she is currently prioritising. 

“I believe that was three questions. You only asked for one.” 

Felicity narrows her eyes at him. Jerk. It’s not like she won’t find out eventually, because she will. It would just be so much easier if he told her. And then maybe that will make Digg shut up. She’s about to tell him not to bother answering when the car rolls to a stop. 

“We’re here.” Anatoly’s pulled up into a quiet alley, and pops the lock for them. He twists around and exchanges a nod with Oliver. “I have to go... deal with our other business. I will drop you here.” 

And then he turns to Felicity and smiles. “Good luck, Ghost Fox Goddess. I have enjoyed meeting you. I will see you around, I hope.” 

Felicity doesn’t get a chance to respond before Oliver’s ushering her out of the car, slamming the door shut before Anatoly speeds out of the alley.

* * *

**January 2014, Starling City, Odessa HQ**

For a supposedly very secret branch of the Odessa, Oliver doesn’t seem to care much about being discreet as he leads her to their alleged base of operations. They walk in silence out in the open, through a few more alleys and then eventually he takes her through a metal door and they’re in what appears to be a restaurant’s kitchen. 

“Ooh, is there like a secret passage or something through here?” she wonders, more to herself than anything, but it elicits a small chuckle from Oliver and weirdly, Felicity feels pleased about being able to tease that sound out of him. 

“No secret passages, but it’s hidden enough. We use a part of the building that isn’t on the official city blueprints. Most of it is underground. It works well for us. Come on, this way.” 

He seems more relaxed without Anatoly’s presence, the rigidity in his body language having eased since they stepped out of the car. He takes her down a set of stairs and then she finds herself in what looks like an old transport tunnel from the prohibition days. 

“How far underground are we?” Felicity asks, aware that her earbud doesn’t do well below sea level. She doesn’t like the idea of not being in contact with Diggle, even if he is being a huge nag at the moment. “I might need internet access for what you want me to do.”

Diggle’s voice is quick to reassure her. _“I’ve still got you, Felicity, signal’s still strong, somehow. I’m waiting outside the door, just give me the word and I’ll be right there. Holding position for now.”_

“You’ll have access,” Oliver replies curtly as he stops at a door before opening it. “Through here.”

It’s a nice office that they walk into. It’s carpeted, nicely decorated with a rather worn out paper target hanging on the wall by the door. There’s a big desk in the centre of the room, solid wood, a desktop machine on it humming quietly in the background. They must be in his personal office.

Oliver walks to the desk, powers up the computer and indicates for her to sit down. He hands her a small USB thumb drive. 

“All yours. No more tests, I promise. I need you to find out who this drive belongs to, and how he managed to get his hands on the information on it. Figure it out and you’ll get the rest of your money.” 

“I’d rather use my own laptop, if you don’t mind.” 

She doesn’t wait for his permission and sweeps the plethora of paperwork on his desk to the side, pulls her laptop out of her backpack and turns it on. 

Oliver makes an exasperated noise from behind her, but otherwise says nothing, politely pulling his very comfortable leather office chair out so that she can slide into it easily. 

“Aren’t you afraid I’m going to look at all this _mafia_ stuff and tell the cops?” she asks. Her gaze falls on a sheet of paper on his desk that looks like a shipping manifest for a delivery of weapons and she chews on her bottom lip before twisting her head to look behind her, pinning him with a curious stare. 

Slowly, so very slowly, Oliver leans downward, not breaking eye contact for even a second, until his face is a hair’s breadth away from hers. His lips curl into a smile. They look soft, his lips, which is an odd thing to notice, but she can’t help it. The coarse stubble that peppers his jaw would serve as a lovely contrast to his soft lips, undoubtedly, and a shiver radiates through her body at the thought. 

“I’m not afraid of any part of you, Felicity.” The low rumble of his voice sends a wave of heat crashing over her and Felicity gulps. 

Oh, holy _frack._

Her heartbeat is deafening in her ears, ears that are most certainly far too red now, her cheeks undeniably flushed, and from the near-predatory grin gracing Oliver’s face, he hasn’t missed any part of her reaction to his proximity. 

“I - I can’t -” She swallows, forcing her eyes shut for a second. Her fingers curl into themselves over her keyboard as she tries to maintain some form of dignity in front of him. “I can’t concentrate with you on top of me like this.”

His grin only grows wider and she yelps when she replays her own words. 

“No! Not - _on top of m_ e - sexually, because that’s not what’s happening. Obviously. But you _are_ all over me and oh, _God_ , I just heard that in my head -”

_“Jesus Christ, Smoak, get a grip.”_

“- what I’m trying to say is -” she sucks in a breath. “- I can’t work my magic with you hovering like this, so can you go away, please?” 

“As you wish,” Oliver breathes, backing away obediently, though still incomprehensibly smug. He rounds the table, surreptitiously reshuffling the papers that she’d shoved aside before, and then makes himself comfortable in the chair on the other side of the desk. 

Refusing to let his general panty-dropping hotness get to her, she ducks down and focuses on the real reason why she’s here. 

“You’re not what I expected,” Oliver remarks while she busies herself with running the various programs she needs on her laptop. The USB drive is proving to be far more complicated than his ‘test’ drive - which also means it’s probably exactly what the FBI sent her in to look for. Her adrenaline level spikes.

“For a hacker, I mean.” 

_“What the fuck is he doing? Is he flirting with you, Smoak? Oh my God!”_

The code on the drive is remarkable, a true beauty, and she ignores the two men in favour of trawling through the lines of magnificence before her. It’s been so long since she had her hands on something this juicy and she sparks to life. The lines and lines of code on the screen before her almost feels like they’re calling out to her, like they were written _for_ her to decipher specifically, and it’s invigorating. 

She blitzes through the protocols, simultaneously downloading everything on the drive to her laptop, until she pulls herself out of the intricacies of the program and realises what she’s actually looking at. 

It only takes her a second, but the initial awe-inspiring magnificence of the code is quickly replaced by hesitant trepidation. 

“Oliver. How did you get this?” she asks, looking up at him sharply. 

It’s no wonder he and the FBI are so desperate to get to the person responsible for creating it. In the wrong hands, this kind of information could cripple an entire city. _Her_ city. A surge of protectiveness flows through her. She might not have grown up in Starling City, but she did live there for a while and she doesn’t want anything bad happening to it. 

Especially if she’s in a position to prevent it. 

_“What is it? What did you find, Felicity?”_

“This gives you access to the city’s entire communication network,” she says for Diggle’s benefit, and Oliver’s subsequent nod of acknowledgement confirms that she’d come to the right conclusion. “I’ve never seen anything this sophisticated before. I can see why you want to know where it came from.” 

“One of my men acquired it, but unfortunately he’s not... in a position to tell me who gave it to him.” Oliver pinches the bridge of his nose in a rare display of emotion. “It’s been fucking months of dead ends after dead ends. You’re the only one who’s managed to figure out what it is.” 

“Well, I’m flattered,” Felicity deadpans, then frowns as she prepares to give him the bad news. “But as much as I want to help, and trust me, I do, because hate mysteries and I really, really want to solve this one, I can’t find out who wrote this, not from here, at least.” 

Oliver’s face darkens, brows knitting together as his nostrils flare. His lips morph into an angry frown. He shoves the chair he’s sitting on backwards, looming over her like a thundering cloud. 

He slams both his palms on the desk. He growls, “What do you mean you _can’t?!_ ” 

“This USB drive? Total bust. This gives you read-only access. The way it works is that once it’s plugged in to a computer, it connects to a remote server through an SSH tunnel in your computer, which then gives you access to the information on it.” 

At Oliver’s blank look, she sighs. 

“Okay. Pretend the drive is a key. You insert it into a computer, it connects to the internet, and unlocks a gateway to a server _somewhere_ and that’s how you’re seeing the information on it. The drive itself doesn’t contain any real information. The server that it’s connecting to is what you need - what _I_ need - if you want to find out who it belongs to.” 

_“Damn, that’s next level kind of shit. Now get out of there and come back so we can debrief. We’ll send all the information you’ve downloaded onto your laptop back to Quantico and they can handle it from there. Good work, Felicity.”_

Felicity curses under her breath at Diggle’s order. She’s not ready to go home. Not yet. The embers of curiosity have been stoked into a full blown bonfire and surely Digg knows her well enough by now that she’s not going to leave this to the FBI. She’s _right there!_ Who better to investigate this than her? 

“So what you’re saying is that you _can’t_ crack this?” 

Felicity glares at Oliver. Would it be too dangerous to throw her laptop at him? 

_“Can’t_ crack thi- are you- That’s just plain insulting. There’s nothing _to_ crack. This -” she points at her laptop’s screen. “- is a glorified window into some ridiculously valuable data. If you want me to do real work, we’ll have to locate the servers, probably physically get me inside, and then you can pass judgment on whether I can or cannot crack it.”

She lets out a puff of air. “Which I will. Crack it, I mean. So you can shove your judgment - um. What, why are you looking at me like that?” 

“You... you said ‘we’?” 

_“No, hell no, you did not just say we. Felicity Smoak, you get out of there right now.”_

Wow, she is _so_ going to be an expert at tuning Digg out once this operation is over. 

“Yes, I did,” she tells Oliver. “You won’t find anyone else with the ability to do this, trust me, and lucky for you, I’m just curious enough about this drive and who made it that I’ll volunteer my mad hacking skills,” she wiggles her fingers in front of her. “At no extra cost to you.” 

The FBI is going to have her neck for this, she sure of it. She’s going off-book, on an unsanctioned and unauthorised operation and from the way Diggle’s gone silent in her ear, she knows she’s in big, _big_ trouble with him too. 

Still, the call of the mystery that is the thumb drive is one she cannot ignore. The FBI shouldn’t be surprised; after all, sticking her nose into things that don’t concern her is how they managed to rope her into joining their ranks in the first place. In fact, one could even make an argument that she’s merely doing exactly what is expected of her. 

“You really want to keep at this?” 

_“Yes,”_ she repeats, frustrated. What’s so hard to comprehend about that, honestly? 

Oliver scratches his the back of his head. His earlier aggression is nowhere to be seen, replaced with a mix of surprise and maybe a little doubt, and he just stares like he doesn’t know what to do with her. There’s a weird vibe in the air as he studies her with quiet contemplation. 

“Do you have to check with your, um, higher ups?” she ventures a guess at his hesitance.

She walks around the desk to face him unhindered, then leans her hip against the solid edge. Oliver doesn’t budge, but he does let his gaze linger on her legs as she crosses them in front of her. She’s filled with a little smug pride; at least the physical attraction between them seems to be mutual.

“‘Cause I’ll wait if you do. Have to check, that is,” she remarks casually. 

_“Don’t see_ you _checking_ _with your higher ups, you punk,”_ Diggle’s voice crackles back to life in her ear and she has to remember to not react to his admonishment. _“Lucky for you, I did and Lance is not happy by the way. But he hasn’t called for an extraction. Yet.”_

“I _am_ the higher up,” Oliver grunts suddenly, eyes flicking back up to her face. Oh, insulted, is he? “I don’t have to check with anyone else.” 

Felicity files that away for future use, noting with mild interest that it means an American is holding a position of power within a Russian mafia and that is good information to have on hand. Especially if said American was once the scion of Starling City, and for all intents and purposes, supposed to be dead.

She’s still trying to wrap her head around _that._

As if he’s been having a mental debate with himself and he’s just come to a decision, Oliver clears his throat then walks right up into her personal space. Her knees brush against the material of his jeans, and with the desk behind her, she realises, belatedly, that she has nowhere else to go. 

She grips the edge of the desk desperately, anchoring herself against the table as she arches backwards just to give them some space. It doesn’t escape her notice that under different circumstances, this could be a prelude a very steamy porno and - 

Nope! She wipes _that_ thought out of her head immediately because the grim expression on his face and the hard set of his jaw provides just enough of an air of severity to the situation that she figures she probably shouldn’t be thinking about _porn_ right now. It's hard not to let her mind wander though. She’s been drawn to him the moment he walked into the warehouse that afternoon. It’s because he’s a walking enigma; a _delicious_ mystery, and Felicity isn't someone who lets mysteries - especially one that’s all wrapped in such a scorching hot package - go unsolved. 

He’s tall, _so_ tall, and Felicity has to tilt her head upwards to maintain eye contact with him. He’s standing so close that she can see the darker edges around his otherwise clear blue irises. His arms - solid, sinewy, muscley arms - flex by his sides, like he can’t decide what to do with them. He rubs his fingers together, and the soft whisper of skin-against-skin the only sound in the room, until eventually, he sighs, long and hard. 

For someone who _‘is the higher up’_ as he claims to be, he doesn’t seem very sure of himself. There’s a slight tremor in his voice when he speaks next, in a deep rumbling baritone layered with caution and a hint of danger. 

“If you want to keep working on this, fine, but this means you do this as one of us. Do you understand?” 

“One of you?” 

She only asks as a courtesy because she has no doubt what Oliver’s implying here. Her palms are starting to sweat, her heartbeat is already racing. She swallows the growing lump of uncertainty in her throat. 

“Yes. As part of the Odessa. Part of the mafia.” 

Oliver moves imperceptibly closer, just an inch, but it’s close enough for her to see the vein in his temple pulsing rapidly. The snide little voice in her head points out that if she were to uncross her legs right now, he’d fall right _into_ her, but she silences it as easily as she silences Digg’s running commentary in her ear. 

Oliver’s chest expands as he sucks in a deep breath. He doesn’t blink, fixing his stormy, turbulent eyes on her as if he’s wordlessly daring her to say yes. 

Unfortunately for him, she’s excellent at playing the game of chicken and if he thinks she isn’t going to call his bluff then _too bad,_ Mister. 

She lifts her chin and tells him in a clear, unquestionable voice, rife with defiance, “Fine. I accept. Guess I'm part of the mafia now.” 

Which is accompanied by Diggle’s growl of dismay echoing in her ear. _“Smoak, you are dead to me.”_

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for posting this a day late, folks! Was dealing with fires and toxic air and loss of internet, but better late than never, am I right? Thank you for your patience and understanding! Love you and all the comments and kudos thus far! Feel free to let me know what you think :) 
> 
> Twitter: @griever_11


	5. Chapter 5

**January 2014, Starling City, Outside Felicity’s Apartment**

Sleep eludes him. 

This time however, it’s not the horrors of his past nor his nightmares that keeps Oliver up. What’s preventing him from catching even a quick hour of slumber tonight is the constant churning in his gut, the roller coaster of feelings (lust, annoyance, want, confusion, need, exasperation) that he hasn’t been able to shake since embarking on this collision course with the whirlwind that is Felicity Smoak.

In all the years Oliver’s been doing this, he’s never felt this uneasy. Out of control. Like his entire world is slowly tilting on its axis, on the brink of completely turning upside down, and there’s absolutely nothing he can do about it. 

_Why_ had he asked Felicity to join the Odessa? 

It was so _careless,_ so unlike him, unlike the stern, stone cold, calculated _Sovietnik_ he’s supposed to be. Not only does he know nothing about this odd, weirdly charming woman, but he also brought her to their highly secret base of operations and _then_ let his frustrations get the better of him, opened his dumb mouth and _asked her to join them._ His boss will have his hide for this. 

Never in his life has he done anything so stupid - and he’s done _a lot_ of stupid things in his lifetime. 

He white-knuckles his steering wheel, glaring at the abandoned firehouse that he suspects not only is her preferred meeting place for clandestine hacking, but also where she lives.

He’s not stalking her, technically, he’s just - 

Doing a background check. 

That’s all. 

A really manual, low tech, background check, since not a single person has been able to dig up any information on her. Sure, Ghost Fox Goddess appears now and again in the dark web, referred to with reverence and respect, but _Felicity?_ Nothing. He reached out to his best people and he hasn’t been able to get any information about her, almost as if she doesn’t exist. 

It’s to be expected, he supposes, if she’s such a genius level hacker like she proclaims she is. 

But it’s also why he’s currently camped outside the dilapidated building at eleven at night, eyes trained on the single window on the upper level of the firehouse. It’s the only one not boarded up, it’s frosted glass still intact, and if he squints, he thinks he can make out a vague shadow moving around inside the building. 

Under normal circumstances, had this been another run of the mill Odessa operation, he would have sent one of his men to stake her out. But he had a feeling when they parted ways earlier that day after she had agreed to join him (again, _what the fuck?!_ ) that this - and anything to do with Felicity, really - wouldn't be a normal _anything,_ so he thought it would be better for him to do the groundwork himself. 

Plus, the notion of someone other than him watching Felicity clandestinely leaves a very sour taste in his mouth. 

But then his surveillance equipment failed - _every single one of them_ \- and he’s been reduced to staring at the hazy silhouette of someone walking back and forth through the apartment with little else to do for the past hour. 

“Do something suspicious, come on,” he urges. 

Next to him, his state of the art (or so he _thought_ was state of the art) equipment lies useless, picking up absolutely nothing from inside the building. He’ll give himself another five minutes and call it a night. And then he’ll put in a couple of rounds at the gym until he’s exhausted enough to keep the nightmares at bay when he crashes into bed.

_Except._

As if the universe is taunting him, the moment he turns the ignition and starts pulling out of his spot, _another_ shadowy figure walks into frame and his heart leaps into his throat. 

Felicity’s not alone. 

A surge of fiery rage rushes through him. Who is this person? Is she in danger? Does she need help? He’s not known to be this protective over strangers, but if someone’s broken into her place and is threatening Felicity then surely being protective is warranted. 

Isn’t it? 

And then it occurs to him, once he manages to take a calming breath, that she might have a partner. A _male_ partner, from what he can make out from the shadows. 

Tall. Broad. Muscular. 

He doesn’t know why that doesn’t sit well with him, but he is wary of the complications that this might lead to. He can’t have more variables be part of this; Felicity being involved is bad enough. 

Not for the first time, he curses Sergei for bringing the thumb drive to his attention. 

He watches the window, not exactly sure what he’s watching _for,_ because all he gets is more shadowy movements, the two figures walking in and out of frame and with every second that passes by, his anxiety grows. 

He doesn’t know what to do. 

Confront her about her partner, thus admitting that he’s been watching her? Or leave it to chance and hope that she doesn't tell her partner about her involvement with the Russian mafia? 

Then his phone chimes once, and the choice is taken out of his hands. It’s a text message from an unknown number. 

_‘I know you’re out there, Oliver, you creep. You’re not subtle.’_

He doesn’t waste time questioning how she managed to get his personal mobile number, but he does wonder for a second how she knew he was out here. He’s well-hidden, cloaked in the shadows of the night. Though, he supposes, if she’s good enough to survive being part of the criminal underworld, she probably has some tricks under her sleeve he’s not aware of. 

Yet. 

_‘I wanted to make sure you got home okay.’_ His reply isn’t an outright lie. He wanted to make sure _where_ her ‘home’ was - the fact that she made it back safely was a nice plus. 

Then before he can second-guess himself, sends another one. _‘Can I save this number?’_

_‘Sure.’_ Her response is instant. ‘ _Do you want to come up?’_

He’s still blinking in surprise at the very out of left field invitation when a barrage of texts follow that: 

_‘Not come up, like come up for sex, I mean. Because I don’t know you.’_

_‘You’ll have to buy me dinner first.’_

_‘That’s a joke. Sorry. It’s late. But you’re sitting out there watching me so you clearly have nothing else better to do so why don’t you come up here and we can clear up whatever you want clearing up? Consider it a show of good faith on my part.’_

Unbidden, a chuckle falls from Oliver’s lips as he reads the messages. She’s right, he has a lot of questions, and they’re questions he’s sure he won’t get answers to soon even if he does ask them, but he’s not one to look a gift horse in the mouth, so he kills his engine and gets out of his car. 

When he looks up at the window one final time, it’s open and _she’s_ standing there, blonde hair glinting under the pale light of the street lamps. She waves to him, then lifts her phone and points to it. 

On his own phone, another message comes through. _‘Door is in the alley behind the building. Code is 4-1-1-3. I have someone with me, completely safe. Don’t kill him when you see him, please.’_

He scowls at the mention of the ‘someone’ being with her. At least she’s not pretending she’s alone - honesty counts for a lot in his world. Pocketing his phone, he makes his way to the alley, laying out a game plan for when he gets upstairs. This _entire_ day has been a fucking nightmare and he doesn’t to be blindsided by more surprises. 

As he makes his way to the alley Felicity directed him to, he wonders idly if maybe this someone she’s referring to isn’t her partner and is more of a... boyfriend? 

A flash of irrational anger streaks through him. 

That _definitely_ doesn’t sit well with him at all. 

He frowns.

Both from the embarrassment of acting so completely juvenile about this and also because he really shouldn’t be so presumptuous.

After all, this tall, broad, muscular friend could be gay.

* * *

**January 2014, Starling City, Felicity’s Apartment**

Oliver can count on one hand the number of times he’s been rendered speechless in his life. His experiences - especially in recent years - has conditioned him to always expect the unexpected, no matter what the circumstances are, so when he knocks on the unassuming metal door that he thinks leads to her apartment, he prepares himself up to confront whatever he’ll find on the other side. 

Except, once again (and it’s quickly becoming a pattern when it comes to her, he realises) he’s literally and figuratively knocked off balance when the door swings open and he comes face to face with Felicity. 

Wearing what is quite clearly her pajamas. 

The thin material of her tank top does absolutely nothing to hide the lacy bra she has on underneath (white), and the barely there spaghetti straps that hold the flimsy material up does an amazing job showcasing the smooth expanse of her creamy, pale skin, leaving the top of her chest bare and her (wonderfully toned) arms open to his gaze. 

His tongue feels too thick all of a sudden, his breath catching in his throat as he drinks her in. She’s attractive - he’s quite aware of that, he’s not blind - but _this?_ With her tousled hair, inquisitive blue eyes staring at him with wide-eyed innocence behind the glasses sitting precariously on the edge of her nose, lips pressed together as she gives him a careful once over? 

It’s downright _devastating._

The absence of her platform boots magnifies the height difference between them and his mind _unhelpfully_ conjures up different scenarios of them making good use of this difference. He wonders how she’ll feel tucked under his chin, her slight body ensconced within his embrace - is she a cuddler? Does she like being hugged? Is - 

His cock twitches in his pants, responding to his treacherous thoughts like he’s a hormone-driven teenager once more and he growls under his breath, fists clenching to maintain his composure.

“Are you gonna come?” 

_What?!_

Oliver jerks out of his reverie, heat spreading over his skin as he stumbles away from the open doorway. 

He chokes on his own breath, embarrassed at being caught, and finds Felicity smirking at him, head tilted to the side. 

“In?”

Oliver blinks. “Huh?”

Felicity rolls her eyes. “Are you gonna come in? Or are you waiting for a formal invite?”

She doesn’t wait for a reply and turns around abruptly ( _whoa, that ass_ ), leaving the door open as she walks inside. Crazy woman - does she not care about her own damn safety? 

Oliver scowls as he steps through the threshold and closes the door behind him, only half paying attention to what Felicity’s saying about making himself comfortable as she goes and gets... _something._

An electronic _snick_ indicates that the door locks automatically and it eases his concerns about her home security. He turns back around once he’s sure the door’s secure and takes in the space around him.

The inside of her apartment is surprisingly sparse. There’s a really large desk in the corner of what can be considered the living room, with a very sophisticated setup of monitors and CPUs and various other techy gadgets scattered around it. A lumpy looking couch sits in the middle of the room, facing a flat screen TV that seems a little out of place.

The kitchenette off to the side is littered with take-out boxes, cans of Five Hour Energies, and in the corner of the counter sits a big, fancy, coffee machine. 

The walls are bare with no hint of personal touches and Oliver assumes she hasn’t lived there long. Makes sense - Ghost Fox Goddess didn’t appear on his radar until maybe three or four months ago. 

“Welcome to my humble abode,” Felicity’s voice calls out from somewhere and he cranes his head, looking around trying to figure out the rest of the apartment’s floor plan. 

“It’s nice. Minimalist. I like it,” he lies politely. “I’m sorry for waiting out there, by the way. I only wanted to make sure that -” He trails off when Felicity reappears, walking out from a door that Oliver assumes leads to her room. 

“That I got home safe, yeah, you already mentioned that. This is the friend I told you about. This is Digg.” 

All his thoughts of Felicity looking cute and adorable and how huggable she is vanishes from his mind instantly.

Instead, they’re replaced with _something_ (not jealousy!) when the tall, hulking man follows Felicity out of her room (what was he _doing_ in there in the first place?) and Oliver realises dejectedly that he’s not the only one privy seeing Felicity in her pajamas tonight. 

“Only my friends call me Digg. You can call me Diggle,” the man grunts, jaw twitching as if it physically pains him to speak to Oliver. His ridiculously large arms are crossed over his chest in a very clear sign of disapproval of his presence.

Oliver rolls his shoulders, straightens his back, tilts his chin up at him. 

He’s Oliver fucking Queen, leader of the Odessa, among other things. He’s not about to be intimidated by some random guy, no matter how huge the aforementioned man’s biceps are. 

“I’m Oliver.” 

“Yeah, I know who you are.” 

A beat of silence passes between them before Felicity clears her throat.

“So much testosterone, wow,” she mumbles. “Anyway. Oliver, this is my partner. Business partner, not... whatever. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about him earlier, but you know, what with - _the mafia_ \- and your stupid test, and secret lairs and stuff -” 

“It’s not a secret lair,” Oliver interjects. And then shakes his head at the absurdity of it all because _how_ is that what he’s focusing on, instead of the fact that she’s clearly told this Diggle guy everything about _his_ business? Has she really affected his sensibilities _that_ much? 

Not acceptable. 

“- I didn’t get a chance to tell you that I _don’t_ work alone, and that we’re kinda a package deal.” 

Oliver stares at her. Is she being serious? She had an _entire afternoon_ of chances to tell him about her partner, and not _once_ did she mention him. It's suspicious behaviour. In all the years he’s been doing this, his gut instinct has never failed him, and right now his gut is screaming at him that something about all of this doesn’t feel right. He's inclined to agree. 

What is Felicity playing at? 

He advances towards her slowly, and predictably, Diggle closes in behind her as well. If looks could kill, Oliver would already be dead. 

“Okay, look,” Felicity sighs, drawing Oliver’s attention back to her instead of her companion. She pushes her glasses up her nose, turning her head back and forth, eyes darting between Oliver and Diggle. 

“I get that this isn’t... wasn’t what you agreed to, so I understand your... um ‘grr’ face. And I am sorry for not telling you, but look, I trust Digg with my life -”

“Who you trust doesn't matter to me because Idon’t trust _you!”_

His temper flares, rage swirling in his blood. He hates being lied to, and even though he’s refusing to acknowledge it, he hates it even more that _Felicity_ lied to him. His control over the situation is slipping and he hates _that_ too, all because this _infuriating_ woman -

“Hey, I _said_ I’m sorry,” Felicity snaps. “But it’s me and Digg, or nothing at all.” 

“Sorry? You’re _sorry?”_ Oliver explodes, and the single window in the room shudders at his volume. “The Odessa isn’t some two-bit street gang, Felicity! You don’t just alter the agreement because you feel like it! There are _rules._ Rules that I broke for you, because you promised me results _and_ your discretion!”

He rakes his hand through his hair, regretting coming in unarmed. What he wouldn’t give to feel the comforting weight of his gun right now. 

“Can you let me exp-” 

“People get _killed_ for a lot less than what you’ve just done!” he roars, seething. "This isn't a one of your computer games Felicity!" 

His chest is heaving. That’ll teach him for trusting a goddamn stranger. _Fuck._ Not that he’s actually going to hurt her or anything, but he’s at a severe disadvantage here - on _her_ turf, with _her_ backup and he’s _floundering._ Drowning in the anger at being lied to and anger at himself for being so deluded, so easily manipulated by this woman all because he was captivated by her. What is happening to him? Is he finally losing it? After all this time?

Diggle strides forward, putting himself in front of Felicity, blocking her from his view. “Hey, step back, man. There’s no need to yell at her.” 

For all his passive-aggressive, mutinous glaring, Diggle’s cool, placating tone comes as a surprise, and it does wonders to alleviate some of the rage radiating from Oliver. 

“I’m just the muscle,” Diggle speaks again. He holds up both his hands, palms facing out. _Surrender._ “Brawn.” He points to himself. Then jerks his thumb backwards at Felicity. “Brain. That’s all there is to it. Nothing complicated about it.”

Something about this Diggle fellow oozes _calm_ and Oliver deflates, a rush of air escaping his lungs. He peers over the edge of Diggle’s shoulder and instantly regrets his earlier outburst. Felicity’s thin-lipped, standing ramrod straight, jaw clenched. She's as defiant as ever as she stares at him, but her eyes reflect the unmistakable signs of fear and Oliver feels a chill slice right into his heart. 

Oh. He doesn’t like that. 

Doesn’t like that at all. 

He's never had a problem with people thinking of him as a cold, unfeeling murderer, but that same expression on Felicity's face? It makes him want to grovel at her feet and tell her she's wrong. That he's not who she thinks he is. That he's more than _this._

He counts to ten in his head, then slowly unfurls his fists. “You’re her bodyguard?” Oliver confirms, licking his lips. The fight goes out of him. Against his better judgement, but to appease his curiosity he adds, _“Just_ her bodyguard?” 

“Mmhm, yup, that’s what I’ve been trying to tell you,” Felicity chimes in from behind Diggle, her voice a little shaky. “Before you decided to get all yell-y at me.”

The slight hitch of in her voice is unmistakable, and she's still staring at him with lingering apprehension like she’s afraid he’s going to have another outburst and _wow,_ does he feel dirty about it. 

He doesn’t want to scare her. 

Doesn’t want her to be afraid of him. Ever. It’s a strange thing to want, for someone like him, and yet here he is. 

“I’ll admit that I wasn’t as forthcoming about it as I should have been,” Felicity continues. 

The top of her head pops over Diggle’s shoulder. She taps it once, and Diggle steps aside to let walk up to Oliver again, but the bodyguard doesn’t go far.

“In my defence, you were kinda scary and then you were all _‘if you want to work on this you have to join us’_ and I thought if I told you I had a partner you would rescind the offer, and get even scarier. And you know what, you _did_ just say you were going to kill me, so turns out that _was_ warranted, and it’s not like you let me get a word in to explain -” 

“Felicity,” Diggle nudges her and levels Oliver with a stern glare. “Take a breath. He won’t kill you.” 

“I won’t kill you,” Oliver agrees hastily. Best get that out of the open now, settle any and all doubts about it. He already feels like scum at the mere thought of making her _fear_ him, he can’t fathom what killing her would do to him. 

“But I still don’t like that you kept your partnership from me,” he tells her. “I don’t like secrets.” 

He rolls his neck as he feels guilt slowly creeping in, feeling like a hypocrite. If he wasn’t so desperate to get to the bottom of the damn USB... ugh. That damned drive is cursed, he’s sure of it. Why else has everything gone so horribly wrong the moment he laid eyes on it? 

“Listen man, if you don’t like this arrangement, feel free to walk away. Felicity doesn’t need to take this job.” Diggle arches his brow, daring Oliver to call his bluff. The man leans against the edge of the back of her lumpy couch. “Find someone else to get whatever information you need from it.”

Felicity casts a cautious look between the two men, undoubtedly picking up on the unspoken challenge between them. She picks at a stray thread hanging from the waistband of her pajama pants. The air is tense, heavy with uncertainty. Oliver doesn't want to renege on the arrangement, but he also doesn't trust this Diggle person and he's torn. 

“How about this?” Felicity quips, plastering as smile on her face as if that’s enough to keep the simmering tension at bay. “I’ll throw in one, _just one,_ job, completely free of charge, to show you that everything from now on is on the up and up.” 

Oliver narrows his eyes. “Say again?” 

Diggle turns to her sharply, equally taken aback though he remains scathingly silent. 

“I get that you don’t trust me ‘cause I didn’t tell you about Digg. But how about I make up for it by doing one job for you, whatever it may be, that involves y’know -” She mimics typing on a keyboard. “- and not only does it mean you get one free badass criminal heist, it’ll also give you a taste of what it’s like to work with the two of us. Consider it our Odessa initiation! If you guys do initiations. I don't know if you do.”

“Felicity...” The warning leaves Diggle’s lips slowly, quietly, and begrudgingly, Oliver gets where he’s coming from. 

Further involving Felicity, and now this _Diggle_ guy, in more of the Odessa’s operations is a pretty reckless thing to do, especially with everything else that’s hanging over his head, but -

“C’mon Oliver, whaddya say?” 

She focuses her eager, bright blue eyes on Oliver. She clasps her hands in front of her, her pink and purple painted painted fingernails interlacing with each other, resting just above the waistband of her low-slung pants. Her tank top’s ridden up a little, revealing a strip of smooth, tantalising skin to his gaze and he wonders if it tastes as soft and silky as it looks - 

_Fuck._

He’s a goner. 

He’s an idiot. 

So of course, he agrees. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for thinking about Australia through what's turning out to be a pretty rough time for us. Writing has been a lovely escape from it all, so knowing that you are enjoying my work genuinely makes me so happy, and we can all use a little happy these days. Thank you for all your comments and kudos thus far :) 
> 
> Twitter: @griever_11


	6. Chapter 6

**February 2014, Starling City, Outside Kord Industries**

Being in deep undercover should really be in the FBI’s training syllabus. Honestly. The Academy runs them raggenred, putting nre recruits through some of the most brutal training regimens, but nothing - _nothing_ in the gruelling five months that Felicity had gone through prepared her for _this._

It dawned on her, half an hour into this side-mission for the Odessa, that maybe, _just maybe_ , Digg made some very valid points about this being one of the stupidest things she’s ever done. 

Though, to be fair, Digg thinks that _every_ decision she’s made since meeting Oliver has been a stupid one, so his opinion doesn’t count for that much anymore. 

But how was she supposed to know when she made the offer to work with Oliver, that a) she was going to be stuck in a car with him for a good chunk of the night, b) he would smell so good that it’s virtually impossible for her to think about anything else, and c) that he looks really good in all-black, skin tight, breaking-and-entering attire?

When she got into his car earlier that night, she was welcomed by the very inviting scent of pine trees and fresh grass; the outdoors with a very subtle undertone of _man,_ that she was tempted to lean in and just... sniff his neck for a bit. Of course, she came to her senses in time, but then she was gifted with the lovely, _lovely_ sight of his arms that look like they’re about to split the seam of the sleeves of his technical shirt and _hngh._

She really, _really_ hates him for this. Not that being a mafia boss isn’t enough of a reason for her to hate him, it’s just that she doesn’t like how he makes doing her job much more difficult with _all that hunky manliness_ going on. 

It’s already hard enough trying to prove to the FBI that they haven’t made a mistake sending her out on this undercover mission. She had to pretty much sell her soul to convince them not to send an extraction team for her and Digg when they found out about her new arrangement with Oliver, but having to pass as a criminal hacker doubling as a newly minted member of the Russian mafia, working _with_ one of the most ruthless members of the Russian mafia, _while_ also double agent-ing with the FBI?

Yeah. 

Safe to say, Felicity’s confidence is teetering on the edge of a steep cliff and it _does not help_ that she’s so fucking physically attracted to this dumb man that her senses are going haywire. 

“We should be good to go in five minutes,” Oliver murmurs beside her, gruff and growly, and oblivious to the barrage of conflicting emotions tormenting the woman sitting next to him. 

His eyes are glued to his stupid looking binoculars he insisted on using; old school and bulky, and nothing at all like hers, which she offered to let him use, equipped with infra-red scanners and a field of vision that would far surpass the one he probably stole from a museum display of prehistoric equipment. 

She brings up her own scope to verify his observation. The two men they’ve been watching are due to swap with two more incoming guards, which gives them a small window to sneak into the building undetected. She’ll have to disable the alarm on the fly, picking up the guard’s codes as they move in but she doesn’t foresee that as being a problem. 

The _actual_ problem is going to be keeping her wits about her as they search for the server room that he wants her to break into. Because if she’s this distracted by his _scent,_ who knows how she’s going to fare creeping around the dark hallways of Kord Industries with him? They’re probably going to brush up against one another since he’s going to want to keep her close and - 

Oliver’s voice interrupts her spiralling thoughts. “Hey, wanna make out while we wait?” 

Stunned, Felicity yelps, drops her scope and twists to look at him so quickly she might have given herself whiplash. _What the f-_

“I’m _sorry?”_ she squeaks, breathless, plastering her entire back against the car door, putting as much space as possible between herself and Oliver. She blinks at him dumbly. _“What did you say?”_

Oliver furrows his brows, looks her up and down quizzically. “Um... Can you make anything out past the gate?” 

_Jesus Christ._

Holding a hand against her chest, Felicity’s head tips backwards, gently hitting the window as she calms herself down. She screws her eyes shut. “Oh, God, I thought you said something else...” 

“What did you think I said?” 

Felicity cracks an eye open. The confusion all over Oliver’s face is adorable, and for a split second he doesn’t look like he could hurt a fly, let alone be a part of the mafia. His scruff is a lot thicker, calling attention to his lips, pressed together in a slight frown as he waits for a clarification. 

“Um, nothing, just... stupid stuff,” Felicity clears her throat. She turns back to the front, feels around for the scope that she dropped and presses it against her eyes, ignoring Oliver’s curious gaze.

“Can’t spot anything past the gate. Coast is clear.” 

“Why are you turning red, Felicity?” 

_Oh -_ the way Oliver’s voice drops into a low, sexy, rumble sends an involuntary shiver down her spine. 

“I’m not - I’m not red,” she stammers. The grip on her scope tightens. She refuses to turn around to face Oliver, and instead zooms in at the employee’s entrance they’re meant to be sneaking into in about three minutes. 

And then she feels him, _literally,_ as he stretches over the centre console, feels the warmth of his breath coast over the back of her neck, goosebumps forming on her skin as he whispers, “Sure you are.”

She’s frozen in her seat, holding her breath as Oliver’s fingers curve along the inside of the collar of her shirt, then pulls gently down on it. 

“Red, all the way down your neck,” he murmurs. 

He must be leaning forward even more; she can feel the soft bristles of his scruff brushing along the long line of her neck. She pictures him and his startlingly blue eyes looking down her collar and suddenly the air is thick and crackling with an intensity that she’s never experienced before. 

“What are you thinking about, Felicity?” he murmurs huskily while he readjusts her collar as if he _wasn’t_ the one responsible for the trail of fire, need, and want along the back of her neck. 

The strangled whimper that falls from her lips is embarrassing, but she can’t bring herself to care when all she can think of is that same heat blazing down the _rest of her body._ If all it takes for her to feel like _this_ is a simple brush of his finger against her skin, _holy sh-_

“Okay, that’s quite enough from the both of you.” 

Felicity lets out a small shriek of surprise at the intrusion and Oliver - 

Oliver slams his body right back into the driver side like he’s been electrocuted. 

Diggle’s head pops up in between their two seats, scowling, jaw clenched. “You guys forgot I was here, didn’t you?”

Felicity nods furiously. _Fuck._ She really did. It’s not her fault though. It’s 100% Oliver’s. Stupid, frustrating, annoying son of a - 

“Of course, I knew you were there,” Oliver grunts. He gathers his things; gun, knife, some other weird device, and then gets out of the car faster than Felicity can say _‘Liar.’_

Before he slams the door shut, he sends her a withering glare through the opening, all traces of his earlier playfulness gone. “Are we doing this or what?”

Diggle chuckles and Felicity huffs, affronted. 

_Men._

“Yeah, yeah,” she mutters, checking that she has her own gear with her one last time. She shoots Diggle a long look. _Have my back in there._ He nods at her in silent understanding. 

She climbs out of the car and grins at Oliver’s mullish expression. In a pleasant twist of events, knowing that Oliver’s just as affected as she is by this _whatever_ that’s simmering between them has eased her nerves a little. 

Not such an emotionless murderer after all, is he? 

“‘Kay, c’mon grumpy face. Lets go commit a crime.”

* * *

**February 2014, Starling City, Kord Industries**

“Are you sure you know what you’re doing?” 

Felicity holds her middle finger up at Oliver, not even sparing her very annoying, temporary, partner a glance as she quickly overrides the security system and plants a virus in Kord's mainframe. The door before them slides open with a quiet ‘whoosh’ and she steps back primly, silently daring Oliver to say another word about her skills. 

“O-kay, my bad. Carry on.” 

Smart man. 

Oliver takes the lead then, gun drawn in one hand, the other flung out the side to keep Felicity behind him. It’s almost like he’s forgotten she has run heists with the other underground criminal outfits before and he’s treating her like this is her first rodeo. 

Again. _Men._

“Don’t you think I should take the lead here, since I’m the one who knows where we’re going?” she whispers animatedly as they weave through the empty hallway. “I know you want to be the big, scary man with the gun, but I promise you -”

“I don’t want to _be_ the big, scary man with the gun. In case you haven’t noticed, _I am_ the big, scary man with the gun. Though, I’m sure you _have_ noticed.” 

Felicity's jaw drops and her steps falter. She stumbles to a stop. Is he - did he just do another complete 180 and is back to teasing and joking with her again?

“Hey, where are you - don’t just stop walking. Keep up, will you?” Oliver’s voice rings out in exasperation and Felicity rolls her eyes at his back, but hastens to catch up.

“I know where we're going too, you’re not the only person who can do research before a job,” Oliver mutters. “The only reason we haven’t hit these guys until now is because our last hacker turned out to be completely useless.” 

“Right.” Felicity purses her lips as a disconcerting thought flits through her mind. “What, uh, what does the Russian mafia do to ‘completely useless’ hackers? In the interest of self-preservation.”

Oliver pauses mid-stride and half-turns to her. “We kill them. _Especially_ if they’re newly minted members of the Odessa.”

Yeah, he’s definitely teasing her; the spark in his eye is unmistakable and the ghost of a smirk playing on his lips completely gives him away. 

Felicity ducks her head to hide her burgeoning smile and nudges him aside as they approach the door to Kord Industries’ server room. Her fingers fly across her tablet, disengaging the biometric lock with ease - she sends another haughty look Oliver’s way - and they both step inside the server room together. 

“Well, looks like you can save your murder-y tendencies for another time, because I, for one, am not useless.” Felicity sticks her tongue out at him haughtily. The door slides shut behind them. "'Kay, lets do this." 

Her one freebie for the Odessa didn’t involve too much criminal activity, to both her and Diggle’s relief. All Oliver wants, though Felicity isn’t sure why yet, is Kord’s proprietary algorithm that they use as part of their weapons manufacturing and design process. Felicity doesn’t claim to be an expert on the Russian mafia’s activities, of course, but even with her rudimentary knowledge she knows that this sort of intel - this algorithm - that Oliver’s after, is a little out of the ordinary for them. 

“How long do you need?” Oliver asks, taking up a position by the doorway, body primed for attack. “Next rotation is in fifteen minutes, it’ll be great if you can be done by then.” 

“Don’t worry,” she assures him. She spies the switch on a wall nearby and flips it, flooding the room with light.

She gives herself a minute to take in the stacks of servers that line the walls, the towers of blinking lights forming a maze through the room. Ah, Felicity inhales deeply. _Home._

First things first, she locates the main array and disables the frequency jammer. She doesn’t expect any trouble tonight, and even though she’s pretty much thrown out her entire FBI training handbook by now, she knows it’s always better to be safe than sorry. The earbud in her ear beeps twice, connecting with Diggle who’s waiting outside for them. 

“You’re online,” she tells Diggle, keeping her voice low. “Oliver, you good?” 

“I have you.” 

She hears him both in her ear and from somewhere behind her, and she’s not sure if it’s the gravelly tone of his voice or if it’s because he says _‘I have you’_ like he means it - like he _does_ have her - but she feels his words hit her right in her gut and she’s suddenly warm and tingly all over. 

_“Copy that. Stay safe you two. See you soon.”_ Diggle tells them. 

She gets to work quickly after that. Moving from stack to stack, she finds what she needs easily and starts defragmenting the pieces of code as efficiently as she can. 

She duplicates the code first, something that Oliver doesn’t need to know she’s doing, sending them off to Diggle when she’s sure Oliver isn’t paying any attention to her. The FBI would want to know what the Odessa is up to and if this helps even a little to shed some light into their operation, she’s not going to let the opportunity go to waste. 

“Are you done? Have you found it yet?”

“No,” Felicity lies, and she can’t help but feel a little guilty about it. 

She pulls out another hard drive and finds herself a nice, secluded corner in the room out of Oliver’s line of sight. She shuffles into a space between two large server stacks, clones the actual code onto the fake hard drive, then starts typing furiously on her tablet. 

_“Hey, where’d you disappear off to?”_ This time she’s physically far enough away from Oliver that she only hears him through her earbud. _“You okay? Do you need me to -”_

Wow, Oliver gets chatty when he’s on the edge. Felicity files that nugget away for future use. 

“Shh. Let me concentrate, Oliver. I’m fine. You just watch the door.” 

The next part of her plan is to corrupt the data that she’s going to give Oliver, or alter it enough so that he can’t actually do anything with it. The trick however, is doing it in such a way that he can’t tell that she’s tampered with it. 

None of the other jobs she’s pulled off with the other gangs have raised any of their suspicions, but Oliver’s different. 

He makes her _feel_ different and she doesn’t know if that’s a good or bad thing. Yet. 

_“Felicity, hurry.”_

“Give me a couple more minutes,” she murmurs, tweaking a few lines in the algorithm. His impatience is frustrating. “Hold your horses.” 

_“No, Felicity, I’m serious. You have to move.”_

She chalks up the urgency in his tone to paranoia and she growls under her breath. Her fingers are flying across her keyboard as fast as she can move them. She’s simultaneously learning the algorithm and rewriting it on the fly, it’s not _fucking easy_ \- even though in his defence, Oliver doesn’t know about the whole rewriting part.

“I’m nearly done, oh my G-”

She doesn’t get to finish her sentence before the entire room is blanketed in complete darkness. Her equipment falls to the ground in an unceremoniously loud thump. A scream bubbles up from her throat, but before it leaves her lips, a hand comes down over her mouth, hard and insistent and she tenses up. 

She moves on autopilot, thankful for her months of fight training, twisting away and shoving the dead weight off her, muscle memory dictating her moves. Her hands claw at the hard flesh trapping her against the wall, her body bucking - 

“Jesus, _Felicity,_ it’s me - stop that!” Oliver hisses at her through the darkness. 

Oh.

She stills immediately. 

Oliver rasps in her ear, barely above a whisper. “Guards are early, they’re coming in for their routine check right now. Don’t. Move.” 

And _now_ her body is tensing up for a wholly different reason. 

Awareness ripples through her, finally registering the fact that Oliver’s _entire body_ is lined up against hers, trying to hide them both in the miniscule space between the two servers. His leg, thick and solid, slides in between hers, flattening her even more against the wall. His other hand slides down her waist, resting along the outside of her hip.

He removes his hand from her mouth slowly and she finally gulps down a breath - only to have her chest expand with the effort, pressing right up into _his_ solid wall of a body. Against her will, her fingers reach out to tug at his belt loops, making him stumble further into her. 

“Oliver,” she chokes, her senses completely fried, skin prickling with need. Her glasses start fogging up as the heat of their breaths mingle between them. His face is so close to hers, their noses nearly touching, that the darkness doesn’t hinder her view of his face at all. 

His pupils are blown. His nostrils flared. His breath comes out in heavy pants, ragged and uncontrolled.

He’s just as turned on as she is. “Felicity.” 

He says her name like it’s a prayer. The curl of his tongue around the syllables of her name is both a blessing and a punishment and it awakens a deep-seated longing in her chest. She groans as pure, carnal desire courses through her blood, the underlying danger of getting caught contributing to the spike of adrenaline in her system.

Her hips roll against his once, and her eyes widen in surprise as she comes in contact with the rigid bulge in his pants. “Oh.” The realisation sends more sparks through her body, right down to her core. She squirms. “Oliv-”

“Don’t move, _please,”_ he rasps in her ear. He’s trembling, at the end of his restraint, the hand at her hip clutching onto her so tightly she’s sure she’ll have bruises on her skin tomorrow. His other hand slides slowly, so very slowly up her other arm, gliding up the material of her long-sleeved shirt. 

His fingers trips up her shoulders, skips past the flushed skin of her collarbone, then spreads wide as he arrives at the smooth line of her jaw. 

His touch is phantom-light, like he’s scared of her, fingers barely hovering over her skin. He applies a little pressure and Felicity allows him to tilt her face upwards. Allows him to run the pads of his fingers, warm and calloused, along her jaw, under her chin. 

Barely inches apart, basking in the scent of the woods, and sweat and Oliver, Felicity sighs; it’s an invitation, a plea and a demand all at once. Understanding flickers in Oliver’s eyes, the haze of lust clearing for a brief second and then - 

He kisses her. 

For one single fleeting second, as her lips come into contact with the wonderful, delightful dichotomy of coarse stubble and soft lips, her entire body comes alive. It’s just a touch, the slow press of his lips against hers, and it’s both the cruellest and most amazing sensation she’s ever experienced in her life. 

Felicity sighs, melting into into the forbidden moment. Her entire body crackles with untamed energy, just from that one single point of contact. 

Until of course - _of course,_ Diggle’s voice rings out in her ear - and Oliver’s - and they jerk apart with twin gasps of shock.

_“Guys. Guards are gone. Pretty sure you’ve been clear for at least two minutes. Get out of there.”_

In an instant, Oliver’s a good three feet away from her, face shuttered, emotionless. The tick in his jaw is as present as ever, the vein in his forehead is pulsing angrily. 

“Get your stuff.” He points to the drive that she’d dropped earlier, but he doesn’t even wait for her to pick up her discarded equipment before he’s marching through the maze of servers towards the exit, gun at the ready, as if what just transpired between them meant _nothing._

Well. 

Felicity sucks in a shaky breath. She runs her fingertips over her bottom lip absentmindedly, the phantom feeling of his lips already haunting her. 

_Fuck._

* * *

**February 2014, Starling City, Felicity’s Apartment**

A whole day goes by and Diggle is _still_ absolutely livid.

It makes Felicity twitchy and nervous. As much time as they’ve spent together since this undercover gig started, she’s at a complete loss as to what to do. She’s never seen him this mad before.

Not when she locked him in the FBI training centre because she decided she had enough of hand-to-hand training for the day, or when she accidentally set the communal kitchens on fire trying to make an omelette, and yeah, he’d been exceptionally pissed off when she joined the goddamn mafia without his approval, but it was _nothing_ compared to this. 

The drive home after the break-in had been painfully awkward, not a single word exchanged between the three of them. Diggle refused to give up the driver’s seat, relegating Oliver to brood on his own in the back. The incident in the server room loomed like a foreboding spectre over them, silent and suffocating, and Felicity, personally, was grateful that neither one of the men felt like bringing it up. 

How would one, hypothetically, explain away the fact that you were overheard, _by your superior officer,_ getting up close and _intimately_ personal with the dangerous mafia boss you were supposed to be trying to take down? 

You don’t. 

Which is why the atmosphere in her apartment now resembles that of the ice planet Hoth - except she’d actually prefer to be on Hoth, she thinks. Far, far, away from Digg and the permanent look of fury that’s been etched on his face since she and Oliver made it out of Kord Industries. 

She’s not used to the deafening silence between them that permeates throughout the empty apartment. Deep down she knows her punishment is coming. Diggle’s her friend, but he’s also her handler - and in this case, she’s not sure if being friends with him is quite enough to soften the incoming blow that she knows is coming. 

So bracing for the worst, Felicity makes herself available to him - lounging in the living room, tinkering around with her computers - subtly showing that she’s ready to accept whatever it is Digg’s going to dish out, and that she’s not going to just hide in bedroom like she so desperately wants to. 

Diggle on the other hand, doesn’t seem to be ready to approach her. He storms in and out of his room, alternating between arguing with someone on his phone (Agent Lance would be her guess) and glaring at her when he’s _not_ on his phone, stony-faced and looking very much like a parent who’s just been let down by their favourite child. 

On his third pass through the living room that morning, Felicity decides she’s had enough of the silent treatment and flings herself off the couch, stumbling right into Diggle’s path towards the kitchen. 

“Either yell at me now, or you’re not allowed to yell at me about this _ever._ I can’t stand all this waiting. I know I messed up so just... give it to me. I can take it, I’m a grown woman.”

Diggle’s lips twitch. His shoulders roll once, and then he arches his neck over a long, agonising sigh. “Are you though?”

Ah, he’s actually going to talk to her. Awesome. Let’s go. Felicity holds her head high preparing to cop whatever punishment he’s going to give out.

_“Are_ you a grown woman, Felicity? Because last night? What happened with Oliver? There was _nothing_ grown about that.” 

He’s not yelling which is a plus, but he’s loud and stern and it does a good job of making Felicity feel adequately chastised.

“But nothing happened,” Felicity mumbles. The kiss was barely even a kiss. And honestly? From the ‘ignore-everything-about-Felicity’ act Oliver pulled the whole way back home the night before, it might as well have been a figment of her overactive imagination anyway. 

“I assure you, it wasn’t a figment of your imagination. Not when I’m going to have nightmares about the sounds I had to hear _right inside my ear!_ ” 

Felicity grimaces. “That was meant to be an inside thought,” she sighs.

“I know I don’t have to tell you how stupid that was,” Diggle lectures. “I gave you the benefit of the doubt when you ran in headfirst into this, because I trust _you,_ and most of the time, I trust your instincts. But clearly, I made a mistake.”

Her heart sinks. 

Ever since her dad abandoned her, she’s spent her entire life trying not to disappoint the people she cares about out of the fear that they’d leave her the way he did. Her mom, her teachers, her friends - the very few that she does have anyway - the FBI, and to hear Diggle say imply that trusting her had been a mistake... 

“I’m so sorry, Digg.” 

Unable to meet his eyes, she shuffles backwards and props herself up against the kitchen counter. She hangs her head. “But I swear, it didn’t compromise the mission. I can still do this, I promise. We’ll figure out the USB drive thing. You know I can do this -” 

Diggle walks over to the other side of the counter, and Felicity’s grateful for the space that it creates between them. “You think this is about you compromising the _mission?”_

Her head shoots up. “It’s not?” 

Digg pinches the bridge of his nose with his fingers. “I never doubted your abilities to carry out this mission - that was never the problem. You were chosen for this _because_ of your skills.” 

“Then -”

“Felicity, _you’re_ compromised.” He slams a palm against the counter top. “Not the mission. _You_ are.” 

Felicity bites down on her bottom lip. Words are her forte, but right now, she can’t think of anything that will help the situation. Mostly because she knows there _is_ a tiny bit of truth in what he’s saying but it’s only a tiny bit! She can _fix_ that - she can _un_ compromise herself! 

“You’re too green,” Diggle continues. “Too emotional, which isn’t your fault. You’re new at this, and it’s why I didn’t want you on this case in the first place. And now you’re running off making out with -” 

“We weren’t making out!” she blurts out, then promptly shuts her mouth. “Sorry.” 

“Being undercover is one thing, Felicity. Getting the work done is another. But getting _involved_ with the head of the mafia? Someone who’s supposed to be dead, but somehow isn’t? Someone who not even our best agents can find _any_ information about? Not on my watch. I spoke to Agent Lance about an extr-” 

_Extraction?_ No.

“You spoke to Agent Lance?!” Felicity repeats, her voice going up an octave as she starts panicking. 

Surely, he can’t be serious? She’s been in deep cover for months. _Months._ All their hard work led to her successfully infiltrating the Odessa - further than anyone else has ever gotten before, and he’s asking Lance to _remove_ her? 

“You can’t take me off this case. We still need to figure out where the drive came from, and Oliver trusts me now. Digg, come on.” 

“Felicity, I see you with him. It’s like you don’t even care that he’s a cold-blooded murderer and last night -” 

“Last night was a fluke!” she protests sharply. “It was the adrenaline, you know? Being in the field with him. A heat of the moment thing. I _know_ what my priorities are, and that’s completing this mission for the FBI. Not... hook up with him. It’s not like I’m about to _fall_ for him.” 

Digg scoffs in disbelief. “You don’t need to fall for him for your judgement to be compromised. _Trust me_ , I've -”

“Diggle, please,” Felicity pleads. “I’m not compromised, I swear.” 

Tears prick the corners of her eyes as she thinks of what everyone back at the bureau will say. Felicity Smoak completely botched her first mission because she couldn't get her hormones in check. Felicity Smoak, top of almost every class at the Academy but completely hopeless when it comes to actually being an Agent. 

God, and what will her _mom_ say? Donna had been so proud when Felicity told her about being recruited. She didn’t even mind when Felicity had to stay in Quantico over Hanukkah for training. And all that, for what? Yet another reason for Donna Smoak to be disappointed in her daughter. 

No. _No._

She’s not going to let anyone else down. She swipes at her watery eyes angrily. 

“I can do this, Digg,” she insists. She sucks in a breath, closing her fingers into a fist with determination. “I promise what happened last night won’t ever happen again. No more going rogue. I’ll run everything by you, and I won’t do anything I’m not sanctioned for. Please, don’t pull me off this mission.” 

Diggle scrutinises her for what feels like ages, most likely weighing up the pros and cons of giving her another chance. Felicity bites her lip, willing him to believe her. 

“No more stupid, spontaneous decision-making?” he grunts, still uncertain, but it’s definitely a step up from threatening an extraction. “And you’ll listen to me? To everything I say?” 

“Yes,” she says quickly. “You call all the shots.” 

Eventually, Diggle sighs, eyes fluttering shut as he exhales. When he opens them again, he fixes her with a really intense stare. “Fine.”

“Yessss!” Felicity pumps her fists in the air. She almost wants to run around the counter to give him a hug, but she doesn’t think they’re quite there yet, so she makes do by reaching her hand out across the counter to squeeze his with reassurance. Just once. 

“You won’t regret this, I swear.” 

Diggle nods grimly. “Make sure I don’t.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The response to the last chapter is astounding and so heartwarming. I hope you liked this chapter just as much as I loved writing it. Kissy face Olicity is always great :) 
> 
> Thank you for reading, and thank you so much for all the kudos and comments. 
> 
> Come have a chat with me on Twitter if you're so inclined: @griever_11


	7. Chapter 7

**February 2014, Starling City, Odessa HQ**

Two years ago, when he ascended as the Odessa’s _Sovietnik,_ if you told Oliver that he’d be contemplating giving it all up because of one single kiss - by far the shortest, most chaste kiss he’s ever shared with a woman, _ever_ \- he’d say you were crazy. 

Out of your mind. 

But as it stands, that one brief moment with Felicity is affecting him in ways that he’s incapable of comprehending and he’d be lying if he said he _wasn’t_ contemplating giving it all up for her.

Like a shockwave through his entire system, the quick brush of her lips against his seems to have awakened a part of him that he swore he’d lost in the struggle to keep the demons of his past at bay. Her quiet gasp, her groan of satisfaction, the way she'd leaned into him as they hid in the secluded corner - they all haunt him in a constant loop, replaying over and over again in his mind whenever he gets a spare minute of time to himself. 

It's torture. But also? Absolutely gratifying. 

Which is why the hours he spends in the gym grow longer; he’s less inclined to think about Felicity when he’s working himself into exhaustion. Less time spent obsessing about Felicity with her silky smooth blonde hair, her soft, supple lips, the glasses she wears that emphasises the blue in her eyes and her unabashed intelligence.

Hell, her mere _existence_ is causing a rift in his very soul, splitting him apart from the inside. He so desperately wants to be the kind of person who's allowed to do things like think about Felicity, but he's also the goddamn leader of the Starling mafia who doesn't _get_ luxuries like that. 

For the first time in a really long time, Oliver doesn't know what to do. 

What he does know, however, is that beating the shit out of his punching bag is wholly satisfying, and right now, every time his glove lands a solid hit against the bag, he feels just a little bit better. 

It’s been three whole days since their break-in at Kord Industries. _Punch._ He hasn’t heard from her since then, save for a single text a day later about her working on something that will help with the USB drive. _Punch._ He hadn’t realised it before then, but until he received that message, he’d been worried he wouldn’t ever see her again. 

_Punch. Punch. Punch._

“What is wrong with you?” 

Oliver whips his head around, sweat flying from his skin. “Anatoly. Hello.” 

“You are going to need a new bag if you keep going at this rate,” Anatoly comments, running a finger along the jagged rips and tears that have formed on the vinyl holding the bag together. “Who is it that you’re picturing when you do this?” 

“No one,” Oliver answers briskly. He pulls his gloves off and throws them unceremoniously to the ground. He grabs his towel off the weights rack and wipes he face down. “What do you need, brother?” 

Anatoly shrugs. “Nothing. Just checking on you. You have been... not yourself lately. Also, Dmitri says you ran the Kord job on your own, I thought you said you needed more time with that.” 

Oliver rolls his neck, stretching out his tight muscles. How much does he tell Anatoly about Felicity's involvement with that job? How much does he _want_ to tell him? 

_Nothing,_ he selfishly thinks. 

“As it turns out I didn’t. I have the algorithm and I’ve sent to them Vasily. Haven’t heard back since then.” 

It amazes Oliver how well he can lie now. He barely had to think about that, the words cascading out of his lips like it’s second nature to him. He wants to keep Felicity’s involvement in anything other than figuring out the USB drive to himself. In fact, if he had his way, he would have liked to keep Felicity’s involvement in _anything_ to himself, but Anatoly already knows of her so that can’t be helped. 

He's finds himself fiercely protective of her, and for now, he tells himself that he's only doing this for her own good. He's making sure she's fit and able for what he really hired her to do.e doesn’t want to examine _why_ he's so reluctant to share Felicity, because that will just open up a can of worms he’s not ready to deal with yet. 

Anatoly accepts his explanation without a sliver of hesitation. “Will you let me know if you do hear back about it? Our contact in Ukraine is interested in a timeline for production.” 

Oliver nods. His stomach churns uneasily the same way it always does whenever they talk about their _actual_ work as a criminal syndicate. “You know I will.” 

He bends over to retrieve his discarded gloves, intent on another couple of rounds with the bag, when he feels Anatoly’s hand on his shoulder. 

“I think you’re done with that.” 

Oliver looks back at his friend with irritation. “Excuse me?” 

Anatoly smirks. “Ah, I meant to tell you, but I suppose I got distracted catching up. Your blonde friend is here.” The glint in his eye suggests that he did not, in fact, get distracted. Anatoly hums knowingly under his breath. “Or not friend? _More_ than friend?” 

Oliver’s gloves fall back to the floor. Is he - Is he talking about Felicity? It's been THREE days! _“What?”_ he chokes. 

“Ghost Fox Goddess. That hacker. She is here, in the restaurant. Waiting for you, it seems.” The smirk on Anatoly’s face widens. “She said she wasn’t sure if she should come in the back entrance so I told her I would come get you instead.” 

“Jesus, Anatoly,” Oliver snaps, wiping down his sweat-soaked body hurriedly. There’s no time to go and get changed, but the least he can do is not look like a drowned rat when he sees her. Not that - he pauses - not that he’s trying to look good for her, or anything.

“You could’ve led with _that_ instead of making stupid small talk!” 

“Ah, but this way is more fun!”

Oliver doesn’t dignify Anatoly’s chortle of amusement with an answer. Tossing his damp towel in Anatoly’s direction, he storms out of the gym in search of Felicity. 

* * *

The restaurant that serves as a front for their criminal activities is a legitimate one. Oliver had hired an old friend to manage a majority of the day to day tasks, someone who knows how to keep his private business private, and who also happens to be a decent chef. The shopfront makes laundering money easier, and frankly, it’s nice having easy access to good, authentic Russian food whenever he feels like it. 

He looks for this friend now as he pushes open the door that leads to the bustling restaurant front. His marathon workout session has left him starving, and sometimes when Raisa’s in a good mood, she lets him have a couple of _pelmenis_ hot off the stove. 

She’s not behind the registers like he expects, instead, he finds her out on the floor, standing by a small table in the corner as she chats animatedly with a customer, her hands waving in the air with excitement. 

Oh. Oliver’s heart skips a beat when he realises who she’s talking to. Her shoulder-length, wavy blonde hair is unmistakable. 

_Felicity._

Of course. He should have known she would be able to charm the usually quiet and reserved woman. He notes with interest that Felicity has a steaming plate of _pelmenis_ in front of her, and she certainly wouldn’t be able to finish them all on her own. Excellent. 

Sucking in a steadying breath, he walks up to the two women. "Hey," he greets as casually as possible, as if he isn't crawling out of his skin with nervous trepidation. 

Felicity jumps, and a shadow flickers over her face quickly before she nods politely at Oliver. Too politely for Oliver's liking. He doesn't get a chance to dwell on it for too long, because Raisa lets out a hum of displeasure next to Felicity. 

She turns her nose up at him, eyeing him critically, then makes a choked, disgusted noise in the back of her throat. “You should have showered before coming here. So rude,” she admonishes, rolling her eyes. 

“I’m sorry, I would have," he fakes a smile. "But I didn’t want to keep Felicity waiting. We have important things to discuss.” 

Raisa mutters under her breath before exchanging a look of understanding with Oliver. She’s been around him long enough to know what ‘discussing important things’ usually entails. 

She turns back to Felicity, looking at her with a gentle, motherly, softness. “It was nice to meet you, Felicity. I hope to see you again. Let me know if you would like more dumplings to take home, okay?” 

Raisa leaves them then, and Oliver slides into the empty chair opposite Felicity. He studies her carefully, taking in the neutral, almost guarded expression that’s replaced the easy smile she had for Raisa earlier.

It occurs to him that she was probably playing a part with Raisa before and he has to remind himself, not for the first time, that Felicity is in fact, a _professional criminal._ That despite her captivating looks, and despite their one (wonderful, sinful, woefully short) kiss, she is just as untrustworthy as he is - and the thought is sobering. 

He’d been so caught up in his murky, confusing feelings for her that he forgot the most important thing about this entire situation: that he actually doesn’t _really_ know who she is at all, and that in itself is the most dangerous thing about her. 

“Okay, before we um, get to our ‘discussion’, I think - uh, I want to clear the air,” Felicity says, snapping him out of his thoughts. She tucks a stray lock of hair behind her ear, licking her lips. Idly, he wonders how her lipstick never seems to smudge especially with her penchant for babbling. 

“About what happened at Kord Industries. The kiss, I mean, not the... breaking and entering and stealing...” 

Oliver looks up at her sharply at the mention of the kiss (has he been staring at her lips all this time?), surprised at her bluntness. But hey, if she wants to talk about their kiss, he’s happy to talk about their kiss. It’s plagued him for days now, and maybe it’s been the same for her? 

Maybe she's been obsessing about it as much as he has? Maybe it's also twisted her up on the inside, making her question her very purpose in life too? 

“Oliver, can we pretend it never happened?” 

“Oh.” The single syllable slips out on a sigh.

His heart constricts beneath his chest.

Okay. It’s not like he _didn’t_ expect this - they practically ignored it the entire drive back to her place that night so her wanting to forget about it has always been well within the realm of possibility. 

Logically, he gets it. 

They don’t know each other that well, and he has a sneaky suspicion that she has deep-seated trust issues that could rival his so it’s for the best, really. For the both of them. Nonetheless, it still doesn’t take away the sting of knowing _for sure_ that she wants to forget about what has been the single, brightest, moment of life that _he’s_ experienced in years. 

“It was a completely adrenaline-fueled, heat of the moment thing for me. You’re all,” she motions vaguely in his direction, waving her hand up and down. “You know, _look at you._ All sweaty and muscle-y and there’s only so much a girl can handle - on a good day - so... that night, with the breaking in and the almost getting caught, it was just. Hormones. Nothing more. Won’t happen again.”

Oliver blinks.

He tries to recalibrate himself. It shouldn’t be this hard to do. It shouldn’t _hurt_ this bad. Lucky for him, he’s well versed in the art of maintaining a poker face, so he schools his features and nods as he, internally, puts himself together again.

‘Won’t happen again,” he repeats morosely. He’s careful to keep his voice as even as possible, so it doesn’t betray the way his stupid, traitor heart is shrivelling like plant starved for water. “Yeah. Just hormones going haywire, you’re right.” 

“Okay! Good!” Felicity brightens instantly.

A wide grin stretches across her lips, teeth catching the tip of her tongue. “‘Cause I didn’t want things to be all awkward between us. Once, I played spin-the-bottle at a friend’s birthday and I had to kiss Freddie McNab from fifth period who was super cute by the way, for an eleven year old, but after that he basically ignored me for the rest of the year -” 

Oliver tears the serviette in his hands in two. Freddie McNab clearly was an idiot. 

“- and if _we_ ignored each other because of _our_ kiss, then we’re not exactly going to be able to figure out our USB drive problem. Which, oh, is why I’m here. In case you didn’t get that before. I got distracted by Raisa, then your friend Anatoly and -” 

Ducking her head down, she rummages around under the table before popping back up with her tablet in hand. “Do you want to um, go somewhere more private?” she asks, glancing around them. “Can we talk here?” 

Yeah, he’s _not_ about to take her into his office again. The endorphins from his workout is still raging in him and it’s not like agreeing to pretend that their kiss never happened has diminished how physically attracted he is to her in any way.

_That’s_ probably not going to go away any time soon. 

She’s wearing an oversized hoodie that shouldn’t look as good as it does on her and his mind is wandering - against his will and despite their newly made agreement - treacherously close into ‘maybe she’ll look just as good in my clothes’ territory so being alone with her in his office is... not ideal right now. 

“Here’s fine,” he assures her. “Raisa will make sure no one’s being nosy. No one will bother us anyway.” 

Wait. That’s right. No one else is here - she came alone. Oliver frowns. “Hey, where’s your bodyguard? Shouldn’t he be here? With you?”

What kind of lousy bodyguard doesn’t accompany his charge to a _Russian mafia den?_ He’s supposed to be protecting her! She’s a tiny little thing, alone in the Glades - how can Diggle in good conscience, let Felicity just waltz right into -

“Don’t worry. He’s here,” Felicity says without elaborating further. “Digg doesn’t like crowds, so you can stop making that face now. And even if he weren’t here, I can take care of myself. I’ve got moves too, you know.” 

Oh, he knows. He remembers her moves back in the server room. Vividly. The way she handled herself spoke of formal training, and okay, yeah, he remembers more of how she felt against him, how incredibly hot to have her lithe body pressed up against his while he tried to keep her still to avoid the incoming guards. 

Fuck. 

He has to stop this. 

The only way he’s going to be able to get over his infatuation with her is to get the job over and done with, and then never see her, ever again. The sooner they get to the bottom of it, the better it will be for all of them. Shaking his head, he swallows and gestures towards her tablet.

“Tell me what you’ve found,” he says gruffly. 

Felicity launches into an elaborate speech about IP addresses and towers she’s managed to ping off, a whole bunch of technical, complicated mumbo jumbo that Oliver barely understands. Still, he nods like he does, because despite his best efforts to remain stoically unaffected, he finds himself completely enraptured. 

He notices a couple of things about her while she goes into a lengthy spiel about Virtual Machines and spoofing server addresses: her lips are perfectly shaped in an archer’s bow, she talks with her hands, fingers weaving and jabbing in the air to emphasise her points, and that he _loves_ her voice. 

He truly, with the entirety of his heart doesn't think he’ll ever get tired of hearing her speak. Even if he understands absolutely nothing about what she’s talking about. 

“- so what do you think?” 

Oliver blinks as he pulls himself back from his daydreams about her voice (what is wrong with him?). What was she talking about before this? Something about short wave signals and clouds and terabytes of data being transferred from remote locations? 

A frown starts forming on Felicity’s face at his prolonged silence.

“Uh. I think that’s great,” he recovers. And then mentally pats himself on the back at the blinding smile he receives from her. 

“Awesome! I’ll talk to Digg and call you when I’ve got everything I need. We’ll get to the bottom of this, I promise.” 

He doesn’t know what he just agreed to, but her cheerfulness is contagious and he finds himself smiling back at her in return. If it makes her _this_ happy, it can’t be that bad. Surely.

Granted, she’s a _\- hacker -_ so it could be disastrous, but he’s also the leader of the Russian mafia and they’re currently on the same side, so all things considered, if she’s happy about whatever this is, he should be too. 

“Hey, do you wanna share these dumplings?” Felicity cuts into his thoughts, pushing the plate of _pelmeni_ that had been sitting between them, untouched, towards him. “Raisa insisted on this giant plate because apparently I don’t look like I eat enough, but it’s too much and -” 

“Yes,” he interrupts eagerly, not needing more convincing. His stomach growls in agreement. God, yes. The mouthwatering smell has been wafting at him for the entire duration of this meeting and -

Felicity reaches across the table, leaning forward, and her fingers slide over the top of the hand that’s resting idly next to the plate of dumplings. 

The contact is jarring, and as gentle and fleeting as it is, it makes him flinch away. No one’s touched him in recent years without his permission, because of who he is, and his fork drops from his fingers with a loud clatter against the table. 

Immediately, Felicity pulls her hand back, realisation dawning on her face and her eyes go wide apologetically.

“I’m sorry - sorry. I shouldn't have done that. I wasn’t thinking. Should’ve known you’d be skittish - not that you were back in that server room, because you weren’t skittish then, but that’s besides the -” 

“No, it’s fine, Felicity,” Oliver croaks, stopping her before her words conjure up those delicious images of her sandwiched between him and the wall again, hot and pliant and feisty beneath his body. 

He shakes his head, lets out a chuckle of nervous laughter. “Don’t be sorry.”

His skin tingles where she’d touched him, and he stares at the spot, almost like he’s having an out of body experience. He’s tempted to grab her hand back, just to feel the warmth of her touch against his hand again. 

She looks on, curious and intense. Her mouth parts slightly, and he can practically see her genius mind working - probably deciding what to say next. She’s pulled her hands back, folding them primly in front of her, but he hopes that maybe, just maybe, she might be inclined to try _touching him_ again. 

“I was just surprised, that’s all,” he tells her, fingers twitching with underlying longing. “Don’t be sorry, please.” 

“Well, okay.” She still sounds unsure. “I um...” 

He braces for what he thinks is going to come out of her mouth next. Truth be told, he’s been waiting for it for a while now.

“For a mean, murder-y mafia boss, you’re kinda okay, you know? So I just wanted to say thank you.”

Huh. _Not_ what he expected. 

He thought maybe she’d finally ask the questions he’s sure has been plaguing her since they met. She hasn’t asked him a single one, not about his past, or what he’s doing with the Odessa. Before today, he chalked it up to them being otherwise preoccupied being... _criminals,_ but didn’t think her natural inquisitive nature would have let this opportunity to poke and prod at him go.

Once again, she has surprised him. 

He quirks an eyebrow at her. 

“I want to thank you for not killing me, mostly, but also for being so understanding about um, what happened at Kord Industries.” 

Oliver presses his lips together. For someone so intent on _forgetting_ their kiss ever occurred, she sure can’t stop bringing it up. Maybe he _isn’t_ the only one struggling with it then. He fights the smirk forming on his face. 

“Of course.” Then he repeats her words back at her. “Wouldn’t want there to be any awkwardness between us before figuring out this USB drive.” 

Felicity nods, smiles, and Oliver wants to groan at the way his dumb heart flutters at the sight. He shoves a dumpling into his mouth so he doesn’t do something as juvenile and stupid like telling her she’s _pretty._

She spears her own piece of a dumpling with her fork and waves it at him, one side of her face scrunching up in what Oliver assumes must be a poor attempt at a wink. 

"Exactly! Especially since we’re all going on that road trip to get to that cloud server, right? Can you imagine a four hour drive spent in like, super awkward silence 'cause we didn't clear this up between us? Ugh!” 

Oliver chokes on his dumpling _. Wait._

_That’s_ what he agreed to? 

He gapes at her in horror. 

A fucking four hour r _oad trip?!_

* * *

**February 2014, Undisclosed location**

“Have you heard from our Starling City operation recently?” 

The Agent sighs at the question. _This_ is why she shouldn't have let the video call connect and should have trusted her instinct to let it ring out instead. Now she has to stare at the Director’s face on her laptop and pretend that she doesn't in fact, hate her with every fibre of her being. 

She replies smoothly, “Just the usual weekly check-in. I am not expecting anything else. Same thing I told you last week. Same as every week.”

The woman on her computer screen frowns. There’s a dangerous, steel-edged tone to her voice when she speaks next. “What do you mean you don’t expect anything else? The asset -” 

“Nothing has changed with _our asset."_ The Agent spits the word out with bitter resentment because she _hates_ using the term. It’s dehumanising and no one, no matter how broken they are, deserves to be reduced to a mere ‘thing’ to be manipulated by the Director.

She clears her throat and reiterates, “There has been no updates on the situation in Starling, so -”

The Director cuts her off, raising her voice at the Agent. “You’re telling me, that despite the recent developments with the drive, you have heard _nothing_ from our asset? Despite the urgency of the mission and despite the -” 

“I don’t know why you’re getting so worked up about this,” the Agent interjects with barely contained frustration. “The 'recent developments' aren’t significant enough to-”

“Are you questioning my authority, Agent?” The Director's tone indicates that it's rhetorical. 

The Agent snaps her mouth shut and sinks back into her chair. It’s on days like these that she _really_ regrets her decision to accept this position with the agency all those years ago. Should have just stayed with the army, honestly. 

“I apologise if it came across that way,” she mutters without an ounce of sincerity. “What would you like me to do about it, ma’am?”

“Well, I want you to go to Starling City and oversee the operation yourself. In person.” 

“Excuse me?” The Agent sits upright, pulling her laptop closer. No. No way, she hates Starling City. “You want me to -”

“I think it’s time, don’t you? I’m sending over your briefing packet. Wheels up at 0800 tomorrow.”

And then the screen goes blank and the Agent is left fuming, hands balled into fists on top of her table as she growls under her breath. 

God, she _hates_ her job. 

  
  



	8. Chapter 8

**February 2014, Outskirts of Starling City**

“How sure are you about these coordinates, Felicity?” 

She swings her head around to scowl at Oliver in the back seat. “I swear to God, Oliver, if you ask me one more time, I’m going to -” 

“What, what are you going to do? What can you _possibly_ do to me within the confines of this sorry excuse for transportation -”

“Hey!” Diggle interrupts sharply. “You two can argue all you want but you do _not_ insult my van or you’re walking the rest of the way there.” 

Felicity sticks her tongue out at Oliver then twists back to face the front. “ _I_ like your van, Digg.” 

Digg snorts. “Yeah, and _no one_ likes a suck up, Felicity.” 

Oliver lets out a smug _‘Ha’_ from the back seat, but otherwise remains silent. Smart. 

It’s getting harder and harder to believe that the grumpy-faced man currently hunched over in the back allegedly _runs_ the Odessa - allegedly, because in the two months Felicity’s known him, she hasn’t once seen him actually do a single thing remotely close to running _anything_ (much to the FBI’s disappointment). 

Which consequently, makes it harder to remember that he’s actually the _enemy._ An enemy that she’s supposed to be double-crossing once she gets to the bottom of who created the USB drive. 

Especially when he does things like insist Felicity take the front passenger seat because it has a seat belt and the back seat doesn’t. Or when he showed up to her place this morning, ready to go on their road trip, with cups of coffee and bagels in hand for both Digg and her. Or, now that she’s thinking about it, when he agreed without hesitating for even a millisecond, to come on this road trip in the first place. 

“Hey, how are you here right now?” she blurts out as she twists around to face Oliver. Her seat belt cuts into her neck and she whines, untangling herself. “No offence, but uh, shouldn’t you be mafia-ing or whatever? Or do you have like a VP of operations? Ha, that’s funny - that the mafia has organisation structure like an actual business, but hey, stranger things have happened, right?” 

Next to her, Digg makes a noise and months by his side has taught her to recognise that as a warning growl. She rolls her eyes even though Diggle can’t see it. They’ve got the head of the Odessa trapped in the back of their van, what’s the harm in getting some information from him while they have nothing else to do?

Oliver shrugs. “It’s not exactly an organisation structure, but if there was a VP of operations, it would be Anatoly. He handles a lot of it,” he answers glibly. “Being Russian makes him more... amenable to our contacts. I deal with more high level management, for lack of a better phrase.”

“Right, of course. That makes sense.”

It’s nothing she didn’t already kind of figure out, but it’s nice to have confirmation. Since Oliver doesn't seem perturbed by her line of questioning, she tries to dig for more. “I’ve always wanted to know how you managed to get mixed up with the Odessa in the first place. You’re not exactly -” 

“Not exactly what?” Oliver interjects sharply, and if she’s not mistaken - she rarely is - Oliver’s eyes dart to the back of Diggle’s head briefly before returning to focus on her. Interesting. Does he not trust Diggle? But he trusts _her,_ doesn’t he? “Not exactly mafia material? You don’t think I’m cut out for this?” 

Danger, Smoak. Danger, danger, _danger_. 

In her peripheral vision, she can see the tightening of Diggle’s grip on the steering wheel. Felicity makes sure to keep her face as neutral as possible. What had Diggle said when they first got to Starling? _‘The closer it is to the truth, the easier it is to lie.’_

“I just mean that you were declared _dead_ when that boat of yours sank. And suddenly you’re the leader of the Russian mafia, in your hometown, no less, and you’re telling me that no one in Starling recognises you? I mean, don’t you want to go see your family? Your sister?”

Oliver cocks his head, eyes still blazing, then leans back against the headrest. He folds his arms over his chest. A strange look passes over his face. Not menacing, not malicious, just... strange. 

“Why the sudden interest in my life, Felicity?” 

She doesn’t break their eye contact, conscious of his not so subtle deflection. “You intrigue me, that’s all.” 

“Well.” He rolls his shoulders. His voice drops dangerously low. “I could ask you the same thing. How does a computer genius like yourself end up as a criminal hacker for hire?”

Oh, boy. His careful scrutiny, coupled with the quiet rumble of his voice transports her right back to that dark Kord Industries server room when he whispered her name with the same earthquake-inducing baritone, deep and gruff, and heat stirs in her at the recollection. 

And then she curses mentally because she’s supposed to have forgotten it ever happened (ha, fat chance) and she reminds herself of the promise she made to Diggle about not letting him be a distraction from their current mission. 

“On paper, you’re... literally the epitome of a good person. But here you are,” Oliver continues, brows arched. "A newly minted member of the Russian mafia."

“I suppose it’s because being good is boring,” she answers his question with feigned nonchalance. How she manages to sound so sure of herself, she doesn’t know, but Oliver’s lips quirk up in a half-smile, like he’s impressed with her or something and she grins back at him with pride. 

She doesn’t dwell on why impressing him makes her proud. At all. 

“If you must know, being good is _definitely_ underrated, take it from me.” There he goes again, all suggestive and and charming and - 

Oliver’s phone rings right then, a shrill, cutting tone that surprises all three of them. Grateful for the interruption, she turns back around to face the front to give him some privacy as he answers it in a hushed whisper.

“Stop messing around,” Diggle grunts under his breath. “Remember your -” 

“Promise. I know, I know,” she mutters. “Just trying to -” 

“I’m handling it!” Oliver’s sharp tone is unexpected, and she glances up at the rearview mirror to check if he’s okay. 

The change in his entire demeanour is startling. There’s a tightness in his expression as he glares out the window, grim and severe. He’s gone rigid, back straight as he listens with stony silence at whoever it is on the other end of the line. 

“There’s nothing - _listen,_ I can’t talk now, do you understand? I’ll call you later,” he snaps, before ending the call and shoving his phone back into his jacket pocket forcefully. He stares wordlessly out the window after that, frown lines etched deep into his forehead.

“Trouble back home?” Felicity prods gently. She laughs. "VP of operations not quite up to scratch?" 

Oliver turns to look at her slowly, the corner of his mouth twitching with what looks like restrained anger. His gaze is heated, bearing none of the light-hearted easiness from before.

He snarls. “Nothing that concerns you.” 

Just like that, she feels the vibe in the van shift and she pouts. She was quite enjoying their harmless banter before, even if Digg had been simmering in quiet disapproval the whole time. They’ve still got a while before they get to where they need to be, and moody, brooding Oliver is not as much fun to talk to.

Slumping back into her seat and sighing dramatically, she grabs her tablet and turns it on, resigning herself to double and triple checking the program she’d been running to trace the IP address of the network of servers they’re looking for. 

This is why she’s always preferred the company of her beloved technology over human beings. Always reliable, always responsive, and in this instance at least, not glaring at her like she’s the most offensive thing in the entire world.

* * *

The mood in the van deteriorates as they keep going. Someone keeps calling Oliver but he doesn’t let any of the calls last longer than a couple of terse one-word answers and frustrated grunts. 

Not a single word has been exchanged between the three of them since Oliver’s harsh _‘Nothing that concerns you_ ’, the air is thick with tension - not the spine-tingling, warm and gooey, kind, Felicity laments - and since Felicity isn’t used to being quiet, she’s very, very uncomfortable. 

“Digg, can we take a break? Just for a second? There’s a truck stop coming up. We can get coffee from the diner or something?” 

Diggle gives her a questioning sidelong glance. “Thought you said getting to this server was a time-sensitive, code-rotation reliant, techno-whatever?” 

She’s only mildly insulted by the way he completely butchers the technical term of the process, but she shakes it off. Bigger fish to fry right now. “I gave us a pretty flexible window of error when I said we needed to be there at three. Can we stop for a little while, please? My legs are getting all cramped up.” 

_“Really?”_

Oliver’s question, laced with a hint of disdain and disbelief, makes her turn around. She tilts her head. “What now, _Oliver?”_

“You’re wasting precious time. Your legs are so short they’re barely even touching the front of the footwell, Felicity,” he scoffs. “How can they possibly be cramping up?” 

She purses her lips. Arrogant bastard. He’s in a mood, fine, but it doesn’t mean he gets to take it out on _her._ “Well, my butt is, so shut up.” 

Oliver’s eyes widen slightly at the mention of her butt, and she hums with smug satisfaction. Still got it, Smoak. She lifts an eyebrow, challenging him. 

And he rises to the occasion. He leans forward. “Your _butt_ is cram-” 

“Okay, okay!” Diggle exclaims loudly. “Enough about _butts._ You two need a goddamn time out, I swear to God. We’ll stop at the diner. I need coffee anyway.” 

They pull up within minutes, and the van’s still rolling to a slow stop over the loose gravel when Diggle pushes his door open and all but leaps out of his seat. 

“Behave,” he warns them before slamming the door shut and stalking off into the small diner. 

Oliver’s glaring at his phone again, fingers flying over the screen as he taps out a message. Best to leave him be, Felicity thinks, so she steps out of the van herself, flinging her arms up in the air as she stretches her muscles out. 

This isn’t turning out to be the road trip she had imagined it to be. It’s not like she expected much from a mafia boss and her straight-laced, by the book FBI partner, but would it have killed them to, say, play a round of eye-spy, or put some good sing-along music on? She made an entire road trip playlist for them!

Instead, Oliver had vetoed the music on her playlist, Diggle had agreed (no ABBA, Felicity!) and she’s spent a good portion of their drive feeling stifled under the suffocating tension emanating from Oliver, putting a damper on her mood. 

Now, all she wants to do is get this stupid job over with so she can go back to being rookie FBI agent Felicity Smoak and not have to deal with confusing feelings she’s not supposed to be having for a murderous mafia boss. 

She kicks at a rock on the ground watching with a tinge of pride as it soars through the air - short legs her ass. 

“Hey, I’m sorry.” 

An undignified squeak slips out and she whirls around to find Oliver leaning against the body of the van, feet crossed at his ankles. She glares at him. “Don’t do that!” 

“Don’t do what?” The frown on his lips deepens. “Apologise?”

“Ugh, no, I meant sneak up on me! Don’t do that. Apologising though, always good.” She crosses her arms over her chest. She pulls her bottom lip between her teeth. “What are you apologising for?”

“For biting your head off before, you didn’t deserve it, I’m sorry,” he mumbles looking as if apologising is physically hurting him, and Felicity’s ashamed to admit that she melts, just a little. He’s making an effort, that counts for something, doesn’t it? 

“What’s an apology from a mafia boss worth these days?” Felicity wonders out loud. “I expect they’re hard to come by.” 

“Needle in a haystack, pretty much. You’re lucky you got one,” Oliver plays along, eyes lighting up for a split second. 

“That’s such a dumb saying, you know? You could literally find the needle in a second if you had a really good metal detector,” Felicity muses. “Which, in this case, makes _me_ the metal detector that attracts sharp, pointy objects - your apology - and that’s... I don’t know how to feel about that. I do know that I hate needles, though.” 

To her surprise, Oliver laughs at that. Just a small bark of mirth, but the corners of his eyes crinkle up and he looks so young - so _adorable_ \- and all of a sudden something blooms in her chest, soft and warm; a yearning to be able to make him laugh this way, like, all the time. 

She conveniently forgets that she’s not supposed to entertaining these kinds of thoughts about him.

(Her brain taunts her, repeating ‘kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss’ on a loop)

“I can’t deny that your powers of attraction are unparalleled.”

_Oof._

Felicity gulps. Is he... flirting with her? 

The lopsided, easy smirk on his face indicates that he could be. God he's really going to give her an emotional whiplash one day. He’s pushing off the van now, and Felicity watches him do this in slow-motion as he casually saunters over to her.

She realises with a start, as Oliver approaches her, all six-foot whatever of him that causes her to slowly look up at him as he nears, that Diggle, for once, isn’t in her ear. In almost all her interactions with Oliver thus far, she’s always had him on comms, muttering, admonishing, advising, but this time -

She’s well and truly _alone_ with Oliver. 

“Do you accept my apology, Felicity?” he asks - and why, _why_ does he use his dumb, growly tone with her all the time? Does he know what that _does_ to her? He uses her ill-attempted analogy back on her, “Sharp and pointy as it may be?” 

Oh, he _knows,_ alright.

Her eyes drop involuntarily to his lips, surrounded by the coarse bristles of his beard that had felt so good against her skin, and her tongue darts out to wet her lips at the forbidden memory. 

His voice drops even lower. “Are you thinking about it too?”

She whimpers. How does he manage to get inside her - _inside her head!_ \- so easily?

“Nope,” she lies. “Don’t know what you’re talking about,” she breathes out, though it sounds more like a choked whisper and she knows she hasn’t fooled anyone, much less Oliver, about the direction her thoughts were heading in. C’mon, Felicity. Step back, just take one step away from the nice smelling, ridiculously hot man who can somehow make a plain, white T-shirt look so good. 

“Yeah, okay, _sure.”_ Mischief glimmers in his steady gaze. “I’ll take that as a _‘Yes, Oliver, I forgive you for being a jerk’_. So thank you. And listen, to answer your question before...” 

Felicity jerks her gaze upwards at the potential of Odessa-related information. Maybe this trip is still salvageable.

“I haven't always been at Starling, that’s why no one recognises me. People don’t go looking for those they think are already dead, though it’s only a matter of time, I think,” he tells her. There’s a faraway look that flickers over his face. “And I move around a lot.” 

He’s responding to her _other_ question, she realises. Not the one about Odessa trouble back home, but about being in Starling undetected. Felicity inches closer, intrigue piqued. 

Does she want information about the Russian mafia for the FBI? Sure. Of course. She’s a good FBI agent, after all. 

Does she want information about the enigma that is Oliver Queen himself? _Desperately._

“You let your whole family think you’re dead.” 

She’s not judging him - not really. She’s learned a lot of things during her time training with the FBI. There are a million reasons why people fake their deaths, good guys and bad guys alike, and she’s not going to pretend like she knows a thing about him so, no, she won’t judge him.

Doesn’t mean she’s not _curious_ about it. Curiosity is in her nature, woven into the very fibre of her being, which, she’ll admit begrudgingly, has led her down some not-so-pleasant paths (like this one) but she can’t help it. Picking incessantly at loose, mysterious threads to get to the truth is how she got to where she is, and it’s not about to stop now. 

“Don’t you miss them? Your family?” 

Cautiously, remembering how he flinched away from her the last time she tried touching him, her hand reaches out to curl around his bicep, squeezing it once. He doesn’t make any attempt to move away. 

She’s not sure what message she’s trying to convey here, but imperceptibly, Oliver leans into her touch, hard muscle flexing gently under her palm. Comfort then. She can do that. 

“It’s for their own good,” Oliver says with a heavy sigh. His eyes don’t leave hers, but he’s not seeing her. Something else is lurking beneath his stare, melancholy and deep-seated with regret. He’s got _layers,_ it seems. Layers that she now wants to peel back, bit by bit, and oh, she’s definitely going down a very dangerous path right now.

“With what I do now, they’re better off thinking I’m dead.”

“But _before_ now?” she prods, trying to make sense of the man in front of her. He’s so hot and cold; aloof and flirty one second, intense and broody the next. Sometimes it feels like he’s about to spill his deepest, darkest secrets into her ear, and then other times she thinks he’s tempted to just murder her where she stands. 

“Before you got mixed up in all this Russian stuff? Surely you could have -”

_“Felicity.”_

His voice is strangled, caught in his throat. He pulls her hand off his bicep, but instead of letting it go, he holds on, crushing her fingers within his as he lets both their hands fall, hanging between them. 

“You’re asking questions you can’t have the answers to. Why don’t you care that I’m - don’t you care that I could really hurt you?” he hisses, the grip of his hand around hers tightening. She feels his callouses over her own skin and even more questions pop up in her head. How does one gain callouses so pronounced on their fingertips? By... murdering people with their bare hands? 

His mood has shifted again, all intense and fired up, growling at her like a tiger hunting its prey. The logical, pragmatic part of her thinks that maybe she should be scared of him when he gets this way, but she’s very decidedly _not_. If anything, it makes her even more determined to get through to him, so she sets her shoulders and tilts her chin up to stare at him defiantly.

“Because I don’t think you’ll actually hurt me,” she remarks. 

Not having Diggle yelling at her in her ear is truly a blessing. It makes her brave, free to speak her mind without worrying about consequences and reprimands and being fired. “Because I think you’re just... caught in a really bad situation and making the best of it. You think you don’t have any other choice, but I want to -”

He interrupts her then, yanking their clasped hands towards him, pressing the back of her hand against his broad chest, making Felicity stumble into his space and then he’s bearing down on her, looming overhead. 

“You don’t know a _single thing_ about me, Felicity!”

She winces at his loud, booming exclamation. A gust of wind blows at them right then, unsettling a pile of leaves at their feet as if _nature_ herself is equally upset as he is. 

“You yelling at me isn’t going to change anything, Oliver,” she insists. 

_“Why?”_ His voice cracks, and she feels that same crack form right in the centre of her own heart. The single, anguished syllable speaks volumes, and like rays of sunshine breaking through a thick fog, she thinks she might be starting to understand him a little bit better.

With her other free hand, she covers their clasped ones, pointedly ignoring the fact that she can feel him trembling under her. Her hands are so small compared to his, pale and smooth against his darker, calloused skin. Her thumb draws circles over the back of his hand in what she hopes is a soothing motion. 

For a moment, he appears riveted to their hands, head bowed down, marvelling at the sight. She remembers how Oliver shied away from her touch at the Russian restaurant, and wonders if it’s because he’s starved for human contact. If his bursts of anger and rage are just signs of loneliness; a byproduct of the type of life that he leads. 

“We don’t know what or who we’re dealing with. You're a genius, but here you are running head first into the unknown. You're... a walking contradiction. _Nothing_ about you makes sense to me, but somehow -” he cuts himself off, eyes staring blankly into the distance for a second. When he looks back at her, it’s with a curious gleam in his gaze, soft and endearing. “- somehow that make you so interesting. Why is that?” 

“Why aren’t you afraid of me?” he asks again, quieter, calmer. Rhetorical and mostly to himself. “Why are you so eager to do this for me, for the Odessa? You should be running so far away from this.”

She opens her mouth, but she doesn’t have an answer for him. _I feel like I can trust you even though you’re supposed to be a bad guy_ doesn’t seem appropriate. She cycles through a bunch of other inadequate lies, but comes up with nothing. 

Diggle’s loud voice saves her from answering in the end. 

“What the _hell_ are you two up to now?!” he hollers at them, clearly having noticed the way they fly apart from each other in a mild panic. He’s carrying a tray of coffees in one hand, the keys to the van dangling in the other. 

Which is good, because the twitch in his eye suggests that he might have punched Oliver if he had a hand free. 

“Nothing, we’re fine,” she placates him, wiping her hands down her jeans as if that can take away the phantom feeling of her hands clasped tightly in Oliver’s. “Totally fine. We just needed some air, but we’re ready to go now. Right, Oliver?”

“Right,” he grunts. He turns away abruptly from them and climbs into the back of the van without another word. The door slams shut with a resounding bang. 

“Felicity...” 

“I promise, nothing happened, Digg. I’m totally focused, like I said I would be. C’mon let’s go.” 

* * *

**February 2014, Undisclosed Location**

The Agent fumes at her phone. 

Two years she’s been partnered with him, and it appears that _nothing_ she’s taught him has sunk into his obstinately thick head. They’re both on thin ice with their Director already, and this whole escape artist game he’s playing will not make things any easier for either of them. 

She has two options here. 

One, wait in Starling for him to make an appearance - if he ever does, or two, track him down to wherever he’s gallivanting to and confront him there. 

Her phone chirps again. 

_‘Not sure when I’ll be back. Situation escalating. Update you when I can. Don’t call.’_

Don’t call. _Don’t call?!_

The Agent growls under her breath, tosses her phone into the empty passenger seat of her car and makes her decision. She’s the team leader here. _She_ is, not him. He doesn’t get to tell _her_ what to do.

“Don’t call, my ass.” Yeah, she’s not waiting around for him to come back. No freaking way. She’s going to track him down, and when she finds out what he’s really up to? 

He’s going to _regret_ ever telling her to _not call._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mmmm. What's that? You got some Twilight vibes from this chapter? Sorry, not sorry :)
> 
> BUT! Thank you for the comments and kudos and likes. Some of you have guessed (correctly!) who our Agent is - and I'm about 90% sure the rest of you will have as well by the end of this chapter. I love all of you very very much, thank you for the great feedback.


	9. Chapter 9

**February 2014, Hub City, Server Bank**

“Are you sure -”

“Oliver. Shut up.” 

Not used to people telling him to shut up, Oliver advances on Felicity in a flare of anger, until Diggle’s ridiculously massive arms appear in his path, halting him. They’re huddled together in an alley behind the building, the two men shielding Felicity who’s crouched in front of a dismantled security box, her laptop and tablet plugged in as her fingers fly lightning fast over the keyboard. 

“Let her do her thing,” the man advises sagely. “We’ll get in, don’t worry.” 

But he is. He is  _ very _ worried. Because in the time between them stopping at the diner and arriving at this nondescript building that apparently holds the answer to all their questions, the situation - _ his _ situation in particular - has spiralled way too far out of his control. 

Anxious energy radiates through his entire body, keeping him wired and on edge, fidgeting. He  _ never _ fidgets. The gun he has tucked in the back of his pants weighs heavily on him - physically and metaphorically - because if the situation escalates further, he knows he’s duty bound to... 

He can’t even bring himself to think about it. 

His phone is burning a hole in his back pocket, receiving text messages that he’s been steadfastly ignoring over the past hour or so. He’s tempted to just turn the damn thing off, but he can’t - so he grits his teeth through it and hope his companions don’t notice the way his ass keeps vibrating every couple of minutes. 

“Okay, I’m in,” Felicity announces, far too cheerfully for someone breaking into yet another facility. “Cameras are now on a loop so we can walk in undetected. Heat tracking sensors aren’t picking up any movement, so we shouldn’t come across any unfriendlies -” 

_ Unfriendlies?  _ Oliver narrows his eyes. She’s clearly been watching way too many cop shows. 

“- I need to find the main server array to figure out where the data is being transferred to, but once we get inside, I don’t see that as being a problem.” 

A bead of sweat trails down the back of Oliver’s neck. His gut is churning, a sense of foreboding creeping in around him. Felicity’s so eager to finish this job, almost vibrating with excitement and a part of him feels horrible that he could very well be the one to take that away from her. Or worse. 

Maybe he can tell her to sit this one out. _ He’ll  _ go in and... well, maybe her program’s easy to execute? 

“Get in, find the main server, get out,” Diggle summarises helpfully, oblivious to Oliver’s turmoil. “Piece of cake.” 

Felicity stands up, tablet and laptop securely in her arms like she’s cradling a precious baby. “You skipped like a whole bunch of steps in between ‘find the main server’ and ‘get out’, which, okay I suppose is fair because they have nothing to do with you, and everything to do with me so it’s not like you know what those steps are -” 

“Is there a chance that I can do it?” he asks her, ignoring her affronted scowl at his interruption. He’s grasping at straws here. He indicates to her laptop. “Can I, I don’t know, click a few prompts, save the data, and I can get it to you to decode later?”

The words spill from his mouth in a manic rush and the moment he stops speaking, he realises with a sinking heart that he’s overplayed his hand. 

Diggle goes still next to him, then slowly turns his head to fix him a steady, curious stare. “What’s up, man?” 

“Nothing. I have a bad feeling about this,” Oliver opts for a half-truth. “It’s too easy. Where’s the security? You just said no one’s inside, but if this place has access to all of Starling’s - and wherever else’s - communication systems, shouldn’t there be, I don’t know? Safeguards? What if -” 

Felicity nudges her way in between him and Diggle’s bulk. She’s pulled her hair into a neat ponytail so her face isn't obscured, her brilliant, inquisitive eyes behind her glasses, and lips free for his perusal. 

“Oliver, calm down.” 

_ “I am calm!”  _

She presses her lips together, and rolls her eyes, not at all bothered by his outburst, and again, he marvels at the way she doesn’t back down from him. Lesser men have cowered at his anger, but not her. 

“Digg and I have done this sort of thing plenty of times. And the two of us,” she flicks her pointer between herself and Oliver, blushing slightly, “did pretty good at Kord. So you don’t have to worry, okay?” 

He curls his fingers into a tight fist, suppressing the urge to hit something,  _ hard,  _ because there’s no way he can do or say anything else to contradict her without arousing more of Diggle’s suspicions. He counts back from ten in his head, willing his nerves to fucking _ settle _ down - he’s a highly trained operative, for God’s sake. He should be able to adapt. Having her here shouldn’t be this distracting. 

“Fine,” he forces through clenched teeth. “Fine. Let’s go.”

The security door pops open with a subtle ‘snick’, Felicity pumping a fist in the air quickly before following Diggle inside. Oliver brings up the rear, which makes him feel a little better, just a little, because it means he can watch Felicity’s back in case - 

Well, just in case. 

Diggle navigates the corridors easily with Felicity giving him instructions every so often. From his vantage point, Oliver can see that she has the blueprint of the building pulled up on one side of the tablet, and it looks like Felicity’s already doing something - hacking on the fly, he guesses - using another program.

She’s _amazing._ It’s bewildering, really, how amazing she is. No, he amends mentally, it’s bewildering how _attracted_ he is to her amazingness. That’s not to say her physical attributes aren’t pleasing (they are, they _so_ are), but never in Oliver’s life has he been so drawn to _everything else_ about a woman. 

Her intelligence, for example. 

He’d listen to her talk about algorithms and splicing networks and whatever else she babbles about randomly, all day if he could. The clincher however, is that despite this, she doesn’t treat everyone else like they’re inferior. In fact, she’s had to explain, multiple times, to both him and Diggle the more intricate details of this break-in, and she did it with so much patience and good nature that even thinking about it makes him feel all fuzzy and tingly and -

Ugh. 

No. Focus.

“Next door on your left, Digg,” Felicity murmurs. “Biometrically locked, but just give me a sec...” 

Like magic, the panel next to the door beeps twice, turns green and the thick metal door slides open to reveal a cramped space filled with buzzing and whirring machinery.

Piling into the small room together is an exercise of careful coordination. Felicity gets to work immediately, pulling out a bunch of gadgets from her bag and pays the two men no mind. She makes herself comfortable on the ground next to what he assumes is the main server she had been looking for, and then - she’s gone, lost in her own world of 1s and 0s, leaving them with only a gentle ‘Watch the door, okay?’ before her nose is buried in her laptop. 

Unfortunately for Oliver, this means he’s left with Diggle as company, and since there’s barely any space between the two of them in the sorry excuse of a room, they’re practically rubbing shoulders with each other as they guard both the door and Felicity. 

“What’s bothering you?” 

Diggle’s question doesn’t  _ sound _ threatening, but the way the other man is looking at him sends a different message altogether. 

“Nothing,” he lies. Oliver relaxes his stance in what he hopes is convincing enough to get Diggle off his back. 

“You’re lying, and I don’t know why.” Diggle’s temple twitches. Not convincing enough, then. 

Oliver’s keeps a wary eye on the way Diggle’s handling his gun; it’s no secret there’s no lost love between them, even if they both have come to a silent agreement about having Felicity’s best interest at heart. 

There’s something oddly familiar about him - not  _ Diggle,  _ exactly, but the way he holds himself. Oliver hasn’t spent a lot of one-on-one time with the man, and whenever they’re together Oliver’s always paid far more attention to... well,  _ Felicity, _ but as he really takes Diggle in this time, something - a memory, maybe - tugs at him in the back of his mind. 

“You’re being weird, and have been since we stopped at that diner,” Diggle remarks in a hushed whisper. “You keep touching that phone in your back pocket like you know you have to answer it but don’t want to. You’re acting like a caged rabbit, so again, Oliver. What’s bothering you?” 

“Like I said, Digg,  _ nothing, _ ” Oliver snaps. He refuses to meet the other man’s accusatory gaze, and instead trains his eyes on the door. 

“It’s Diggle to you.” 

Right. Only  _ friends _ call him Digg. Fine. He doesn't need to be friends with him anyway. He’s just Felicity’s bodyguard. The muscle. 

“What kind of bodyguard are you anyway?” Oliver attempts to deflect the scrutiny off himself. “How did she even find you? And you live with her? In that firehouse loft? Can’t say I’ve come across other bodyguards _ that  _ dedicated to their clients.” 

“You have a problem with that?”

In the corner of his eye, Oliver notes that Diggle’s crossed his arms over his chest, defensive, and frustration streaks through him. No, he doesn’t have a problem. The man can live wherever he wants. The fact that he chose to live with Felicity, though - “No, it’s just strange. That’s all.” 

“I take my job very seriously.” Diggle shrugs, like living with his client is the most normal thing in the world. 

His eyes flick over to Diggle. He scoffs. “So she’s just a job to you?” 

“I don’t see how that’s of any significance to you. And lets not pretend that she’s anything more than a means to an end for you either.” 

“Excuse me?” Oliver whips his head around and snarls under his breath. His fingers tighten around his gun. So what if technically, that is all she _ should be _ to him? She isn't. She’s more than that but how is he supposed to articulate that without sounding like a sappy fool? 

“She’s not just - not a means to - that’s...” 

“Yeah, I thought so,” Diggle drawls, shaking his head. “I know men like you. I know the mafia. You use, and you lose -”

_ Enough. _

Oliver gets right up into Diggle’s face, seething. “Don’t pretend, even for a second, like you know a thing about me!” 

“Hey, you two, can you be quiet for like, a minute?” Felicity calls out suddenly, exasperation dripping from her words. “I know I’m good at what I do, but it would really help if you aren’t arguing like little children.” 

Oliver exhales, trembling with residual anger, jaw tense. “He started it.” 

At that, Felicity actually turns around, ponytail swinging violently as she stares up at him from her position on the floor. “You are actually a child.” 

A retort forms on the tip of his tongue, but as he’s about to remind her that he’s actually the  _ head of the Odessa _ \- 

The entire room winks into darkness. The machines stop whirring. They’re blanketed in absolute, still, silence.

Felicity’s frightened yelp of surprise - then dismay - spurs Oliver into action. Immediately, a flurry of activity ensues. 

Diggle, efficient as ever, barks out orders at Felicity, telling her to pack up and stay put. Oliver flattens himself against the wall, one hand holding his gun up, the other feeling for the edge of the door so he can get into position. 

He can’t see anything, but he can hear Felicity moving, Diggle rustling about somewhere next to him and at least, he thinks, at least Felicity has the two of them shielding her. 

“What’s happening?” Felicity whispers, shaky, but otherwise not sounding any different than she usually does. He feels her brushing up against him, fingers cupping his elbow, not heeding Diggle’s order to stay put. Of course. 

“All my tech’s been fried. Something - someone’s doing this on purpose. We’re not alone. Oliver, did you know this was going to happen? Who knows we’re here? You didn’t want me doing this before. What did you do?” 

The accusatory tone in her harsh whisper is unmistakable. It slices through him like a knife through pudding and a cold chill of dread creeps into Oliver’s veins. “No one,” he hisses, and he feels her fingers dig further into the flesh. She’s not going to let this go, but how does she not realise that  _ this isn’t the time?  _

“Felicity. Get behind me.  _ Now.”  _

Next to him, Diggle’s mutters something about her being stubborn, but then holds up a curled fist in the air. Military move. Interesting. 

And then, without warning, all hell breaks loose. 

The door to the server room explodes. Smoke billows out through the opening. Metal clinks and he hears the sound of an object rolling towards them. 

_ Smoke grenade. _

Without a second thought, Oliver turns his around and wraps his hands around Felicity as another explosion erupts around them. He curves his body around her slight form, swallowing her shriek of surprise in his chest, his back bearing the brunt of the debris and shards of metal raining down on them. 

His ears are ringing, eyes stinging, and it only takes one brief look into Felicity’s shell-shocked, panic-stricken face to send him turning right back around, gun drawn and straight into the fray. 

He shoots blindly into the smoke, aware that Diggle’s doing the same thing next to him, calling out indecipherable orders even as they scramble to take cover behind the large server stacks. Gunfire follows the explosion, spraying bits of metal and concrete at them as they try to duck and weave their way out of the small room. 

Felicity’s yelling, Diggle’s yelling and Oliver thinks he’s yelling as well, but he can’t be sure. He operates on pure instinct, only vaguely aware that somehow,  _ somehow _ , despite never having been in these kinds of situations before, all three of them are working like - 

Like they’ve trained together all their lives. 

Felicity’s found herself a gun and she’s tagged onto Diggle, covering his flank as they slowly move out from behind the servers, blindly returning fire whenever they find the opportunity. Whoever’s attacking them is experienced, Oliver guesses. Definitely not local police. 

There’s a lull in the firefight and they all proceed out slowly, ducking past what remains of the door hanging off the hinges. The smoke gives them a decent chance of moving undetected, and with Diggle in the lead, they start moving.

Felicity makes a familiar motion with her hands, directing Oliver, and he wonders how a hacker for hire knows military tactics but then a shower of ricocheting bullets realigns his thoughts and then his focus is trained back on the firefight unfolding before him. 

The computer servers start to fizz and crackle, sending sparks flying as they inch out the doorway, Felicity covering Diggle as he covers Felicity. He thinks he hears Felicity moan about poor dying computers - she  _ would  _ \- but then he’s once again caught up in trying to  _ not die.  _

Until complete silence descends upon them. 

The gunfire stops. 

The smoke clears. 

The three of them face an empty hallway, debris and shell casings littered on the ground. Not a single human being in sight. 

Surprising no one, Felicity speaks first. “Were we attacked by ghosts?”

“No.” 

The three of them, in tandem, turn around at the sound of the foreign, feminine, voice. All their guns drawn. Oliver moves to shield Felicity, one shoulder angled back in an attempt to cover a bigger surface area. 

Then he sees who the voice belongs to. Blood drains from his face. 

He’s done. This is over.

_ Fuck.  _

“Not ghosts. No. Just me. Hello, Queen. You’re a very hard man to reach.” 

He takes in his boss, his _ handler _ , swallowing the lump - a lump that feels more like a ball of thumbtacks - down his throat. She stands before them, in a full suit of tactical gear, tall and stern, weapon dangling by her side. 

She’s here. He can’t believe it. His mouth drops open.

_ “Lyla?”  _

Except the exclamation doesn’t come from him; the quiet surprise is from _ Diggle,  _ and dropping his weapon now that Oliver knows she’s not a threat, he whirls around to face the other man. 

Diggle has stepped in front of Felicity, mouth twisted in a dangerous snarl, protecting Felicity from  _ him _ as if the notion that Oliver could hurt Felicity in any way isn’t the most incredulous thing ever. 

“You know Lyla?” Oliver questions, aiming his gun at Diggle. Cocks it. “How do you know Lyla?” 

_ “You _ know Lyla?” Diggle lobs the question back at him. He raises his gun at Oliver. 

Felicity pops her head up from behind Diggle’s shoulder. “Why does everyone know Lyla except me?” 

”Johnny?”

The hair on the back of Oliver’s neck stands up. Has he ever heard Lyla -  _ Agent Michaels -  _ speak in that tone of voice in his all the time he’s been in service? Ever? The almost-whisper of surprise does not  _ at all  _ fit the image of the emotionless, stoic ARGUS agent he’s known for so long.

She blinks at him for a second, flustered - he’s never seen Lyla flustered - before she shifts her gaze to Diggle. Recognition and a strange  _ softness _ flashes in her eyes, and when Oliver looks back at Diggle, her expression is mirrored on the other man’s face. 

What the _ hell _ is happening? 

Slowly, very slowly, still keeping a wary eye on Diggle and the gun pointed straight at his centre of mass, he half turns to his handler. “How do you know Diggle?” 

“Know him?” Lyla chokes out. “I was married to him.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DRAMA!!! 
> 
> Posting twice a week now, if that's good with you guys? Thank you for all the feedback and the immense love for this fic :) 
> 
> Find me on Twitter: @griever_11


	10. Chapter 10

**February 2014, Hub City, Undisclosed Safe House**

Felicity has never heard so many different expletives in her entire life.

Varying in volume (Diggle and Oliver) and language (Oliver and this other _Lyla_ person), she’s expanded her vocabulary of interesting curse words exponentially in the last hour alone. Felicity, on the other hand, doesn’t partake in this screaming match, preferring to watch it unravel before her, absorbing what little information she can glean from them before she decides how to handle it. 

A Senior FBI Agent, the leader of the Russian Mafia, an as yet unknown entity who she just found out is an ARGUS Agent, and a Rookie FBI Agent walk into a bar... 

She chuckles to herself, a little darkly, as she remains silent sitting at the table in a safe house, a little place two blocks away from the building that they’d infiltrated. It isn’t one of hers - the FBI’s, that is, so Felicity assumes it’s Lyla’s, and despite her reservations about following this unknown person into a strange house, Diggle and Oliver hadn’t questioned it... so here she is. 

Her head swivels from one side of the room to the other as the rest of them yell over one another. None of them are paying _her_ any attention, which is both a relief, and truth be told, a little insulting. 

Their indifference does give her a chance to catch her breath though, providing a brief respite from the harrowing ordeal she’s just been through - she got shot at! A bullet grazed her forearm! Her precious laptop nearly got blown up! - so she doesn't mind them ignoring her. For now. 

Her mission is completely blown, that much is clear. Diggle’s already spilled the beans to the other two that they’re FBI, which had resulted in screaming match, Round 1. Then Lyla let slip that she’s _ARGUS_ (Felicity thought they were a myth, but hey, she’s happy to be wrong about this, for once), resulting in Round 2, and after that Oliver took it upon himself to get in on the screaming match currently unfolding. 

Felicity loses track of what Oliver is upset about but his anger is far more palpable than the other two. Understandable, she supposes. He’s the only _actual_ criminal in the room. He’s shaking with fury, the tendons in his neck are straining as he thunders on about unnecessary risks and unknown variables, hands balled up by his sides, barely holding himself back from a full blown fistfight. 

She kinda... feels a little bad. 

Both Diggle and Lyla look like they’re about to murder Oliver and okay, he might be a criminal mastermind, but he’s _hot_ and he’s nice to _her,_ so is it really wrong that she doesn’t want him to get beaten up by these two other very scary people in the room? 

_“Hey!”_ she finally calls out, waving her arms around for attention, only to be ignored as Diggle bursts into yet another tirade of profanities, littered with words like _betrayal_ and _backstabbing._ Oliver at least, manages to give her a questioning glance (see? He’s nice), only to get dragged into another argument and then he too forgets about her.

But when Diggle’s wife - _wife!_ Felicity still can’t get over _that_ bombshell - marches at the two men with her arms out, ready to shove or push or, God forbid, attack them, Felicity realises that she’s had enough. 

Like, _enough,_ enough.

She grabs her phone, pulls open an app she’d been tinkering around with in her free time and activates it before standing and holding the phone up in the air. 

A shrill, piercing noise cuts through the fighting, sharp and deafening and everyone in the room stops yelling instantaneously. They all turn to her, hands over their ears, directing their collective murderous glare at her instead. 

“Are you guys going to shut up now?” she shouts over the noise. “There is only one answer to this question.” 

They all nod and Felicity turns the app off. 

“ _Jesus Christ!_ What -“

“No,” Felicity interrupts Oliver sharply. “You’re not allowed to talk. You’re done. All of you. Hope you got all of that screaming out of your systems because you’re not allowed to do that anymore either. Do we have an understanding?” 

Diggle opens his mouth in an attempt to protest, and Felicity jams her finger on the app again. He shuts it immediately, cringing as the noise echoes around them. 

She gives them all a severe, withering stare when she turns it off. She snarls. “Do we have an understanding?” 

The chorus of _yes-_ es from their lips is pleasing. Temporarily anyway, until Felicity remembers that out of all of them gathered in this safe house, she’s the one who is most in the dark about everything that is currently happening including how the three people in front of her seem to know each other. 

And she _hates_ being in the dark about things.

Felicity rolls her shoulders, looking at each of them one by one. “Now, _with your inside voices_ , you are going to answer all my questions truthfully. I can make your lives a living hell if I find out you’ve lied to me, so don’t lie.” 

Lyla looks skeptical but when she looks over to the two men and they’re both nodding at Felicity like good little boys, she shrugs and nods as well. 

“You first.” She tips her head at Lyla and starts with the most confounding piece of information she has on hand. “Lyla. You’re married to Digg-”

_“Were_ married. It was a long time ago, we’re divorced now. Fortunately.” 

Felicity cocks an eyebrow at her partner scoffing silently in the background. Interesting. Lots to unpack _there._

“O-kay, noted. Divorced. And you work for ARGUS? Advanced Research Group United Support - really _stupid_ name, by the way, it’s like you guys just picked five random words and put them together for fun - _that_ ARGUS?” 

“Why am I not surprised you know what it stands for?” Diggle mutters. “Ridiculous.”

“I make it a point to be familiar with all known and not-so-known federal agencies in the country... for personal reasons,” she tells him. “You should know this. Anyway, you’re working for _that_ ARGUS?” she repeats, turning back to Lyla. 

No answer. 

But the woman’s jaw tightens, her eye twitches, and Felicity has her answer. She’s about to ask her next question when Oliver, who’s been ruminating silently on his own, suddenly steps forward and clears his throat. 

“Actually, in the interest of full disclosure, we _both_ do. I’ve been... undercover. In Starling. Trying to take down the Odessa as an inside man.”

_Oh._

That’s- 

Her heart - has it stopped? No? She can’t feel her face. What’s this heavy, sinking, feeling that’s-

_Anger._

Felicity rocks back on her heels, one hand flying up to her mouth to hide the horrified gasp that falls from her lips. 

_Embarrassment._

But mostly anger.

At herself, first of all, because as she allows this new information to crash into her, it sinks in that if Oliver’s an ARGUS agent, then he’s probably trained in the arts of _seduction_ and m _anipulation_ and she’d fallen hook, line, and sinker for his tricks.

He... he’s been playing her. 

The realisation cracks her soul open and it hurts. Physically hurts. 

She knew there was something _off_ about him, but had assumed Oliver was just someone caught in an untenable situation that he couldn’t get out of. She’d let her naivete cloud her judgment, created this false image of him in her head - and never once had it crossed her mind that he could be a federal agent running a really, really long con. 

How _incompetent_ of her.

All the little things that don’t make sense about him hit her all at once. 

The way his underground office has a steady WiFi connection, no doubt for all his double-crossing espionage needs. 

How he never seemed overly concerned about her knowing about the Odessa. He doesn’t actually care about them because he’s systematically dismantling them from the inside anyway. 

And ARGUS probably has ridiculously good people that carve out false identities, to cover up his tracks whenever he needs to hide the fact that Oliver Queen is still alive. That's how he's been able to stay under the radar and not get found out. 

It all _fits._

Rubbing her hands over her chest, she wills her heart to stop crashing into her ribcage so violently. Everything about him, and everything she _thought_ about him is a lie; a cover story woven so intricately well and so professionally that she’d just missed all the warning signs. 

Their crackling attraction, his magnetism, _hell,_ even the sad, tortured, Oliver beneath the mafia-Oliver exterior she thought she could relate a little to, were all merely part of a carefully fabricated ruse, tailored to suck her into his world and - well, he succeeded, didn’t he? 

So stupid. She’s been so, so stupid. The constricting feeling in her chest intensifies and she thinks she might be on the verge of a panic attack. 

Oliver takes another step forward, worried. “Felicity? Are you-” 

“Don’t talk to me,” she hisses, backing up, feet stumbling as she knocks into the chair and the table and finally finds reprieve against the wall. She flings her arm out in front of her. “Don’t come near me.”

“Felicity, you know I had to -”

“No!” she snaps. “No! I said don’t talk - You - I thought you were the _leader_ of the Russian mafia! How can you be that, _and_ also work for ARGUS?! You’ve killed people! You murder people for fun, and - and you’ve been lying to me this entire time! This whole time -” 

“Hey, you lied to me too!” Oliver yells, blatantly disregarding her request for him to shut the hell up. He marches right up to her, eyes blazing. 

_“You_ lied to me _knowing_ you were a fraud. Isn’t that worse? You came to me as an FBI agent pretending to be a criminal, and then you used _me -”_

_“Me,_ use you? I wouldn’t be here if _you_ didn’t need me for my skills with my fingers - I _just_ heard how that came out - and what were you going to do after I helped you? Send me off to ARGUS for committing a federal offence? _‘Thanks for the help, Felicity, hope you enjoy the rest of your life in super-secret agency jail!’_ Also! I thought you were the goddamn leader of the Odessa! I thought you were going to _kill me_ if I didn’t _-”_

“I’ve told you so many times that I wouldn’t hurt you!”

Somewhere else in the room, she thinks she hears Diggle mutter, “I wouldn’t have let him hurt you.” but she’s too incensed, too worked up to care about anything else so she rallies on Oliver, going toe to toe with him. 

“Everything out of your mouth so far has been a lie, hasn’t it? So how is that any diff-”

_“I still wouldn’t have hurt you!”_ Oliver explodes. He wrings his hands together, trembling with barely restrained energy. “How could you think that for even a sec-”

“Because you’re a lying-”

“Okay, okay, _okay,”_ Diggle appears in between them, shaking his head like a disapproving parent. He lays one hand on her shoulder, planting the other firmly against Oliver’s heaving chest. Slowly, he pushes Oliver away. No mean feat, considering Oliver’s busy imitating a rock wall that’s intent on trapping her between him and the actual wall behind her. 

“You know, you were the one who said we were supposed to be talking with our inside voices.”

“That was _before_ I found out Oliver’s a lying son of a b-” She doesn't finish her thought, shutting her mouth when Diggle applies a pressure on the grip he has on her shoulder. 

Fine, she can back down for now. She tilts her head so she has a clear view of Oliver’s grumpy face. “I can’t believe I kissed you.” 

“You _what!?”_ Lyla’s loud voice almost rivals hers. The woman pushes herself off the wall she’s been leaning on an stalks towards Oliver, smacking him upside the head when she’s close enough. “Queen! What did you do!?“

Oliver narrows his eyes at Felicity. “I didn't hear you complaining at the time!” 

“Neither did you!” 

“Hey!” Diggle yells, earning him a moment of silence from everyone in the room. “Obviously, tensions are a little high right now,” Diggle sighs as he points out the obvious. “But can we agree that no good is going to come from us biting each other’s heads off?” 

Lyla nods, her poker face firmly back in place, with absolutely zero indication of how she feels about any of this. It’s a far cry from the whole lot of yelling she’d directed at Diggle and Oliver earlier, that’s for sure. 

“I agree,” she says evenly. Felicity gives her a withering look. Of course, she’d agree with Diggle. She was _married t_ o him! 

Lyla merely ignores Felicity though, and instead she places a hand on Oliver’s forearm and pulls him backwards, grunting with exertion. “Oliver, move your feet.” 

He yanks his hand out of Lyla’s grasp. “No, I’m not going to let her stand there and accuse me of being a liar when she’s been doing the exact same thing, which, by the way, happens to be our _jobs.”_

“Well, save it for later, because Agent Smoak and I are leaving. Now.”

Wait. Panic streaks through Felicity. Does she not get a say in this?

“No! We can’t leave! We still have the data -” she points to her bag with all her tech that she managed to salvage from the gunfight earlier. “- from the cloud servers to decrypt, and lying liar or not, Oliver’s USB device is a real threat if it -” 

“We’ll deal with that later. The drive back to Starling is already going to take hours,” Diggle states. “And frankly speaking, I’m not comfortable sharing any information with them until I figure out what we’re going to do about ARGUS’ involvement.” He shoots a look at both Lyla and a still-glowering Oliver. “No offence, but I don't trust either of you.”

“Yeah, we don’t trust you either,” Oliver snaps, arms folded over his chest. The deep, growly tone of his voice raises goosebumps on Felicity’s skin. Traitorous skin. “That information is ours. Whatever you find, it belongs to ARGUS, we _paid_ you -” 

“Oliver, let them go.” Lyla shakes her head. With a smidgen more warmth than was present in Olvier’s tone, she says, “Johnny’s right. There are things that need to be figured out between our agencies that go way above our heads. Let them go home. We’ll keep in contact. Besides, Agent Smoak needs to get that cut looked at and maybe a ten hour nap.”

Felicity watches with muted interest as the fight goes out of Oliver, fury and indignance replaced with... concern? No. Can’t be. He’s probably just upset that his superior is pulling rank on him in front of them. Not so badass anymore, is he? 

“I live in Starling too,” Oliver mutters, and if she’s not mistaken, he’s... pouting? “I rode in with them, I can -”

“No, you’re staying right here,” Lyla commands with an air of finality that doesn’t leave room for arguments. “We’re going to talk about you ignoring my calls, ignoring agency protocols _and_ making deals with -” Lyla stops short, turning to face Diggle and Felicity. An apologetic smile graces her lips. 

Hands behind her back, she shakes her head. “I’ll deal with him privately. You two best get on the road before it gets too dark. Let me see you out.”

* * *

**February 2014, Hub City - Starling City, Diggle’s Van**

Felicity simmers in her rage for an hour after they leave the ARGUS safe house. She oscillates between being frustrated at herself, Oliver, and the situation in general, and the atmosphere in the van reflects this. Diggle opts to stay quiet, but does occasionally glance at her, presumably to check if she’s okay. 

Reflecting on everything that has happened since she first stepped foot in Starling City helps a little by putting a few things in perspective for her. Despite the circumstances surrounding obtaining information on the USB drive, they _did_ uncover a good amount of data from the server bank. She’d managed to get through a lot of it before Lyla opened fire on them and she’s confident she’ll be able to figure out who it belongs to once she gets back to her equipment.

So at least, _that_ part hasn’t been a complete loss. After all, that’s what the Bureau had sent her here for. Mission accomplished and job well done, team Smoak and Diggle.

She casts a glance Diggle. “Did you know?” she asks, finally breaking the strained silence between them. 

“About Oliver being ARGUS? No. I did tell you to stay away from him, though. Turns out I was right to do so.”

Felicity rolls her eyes. Of course, he’d bring that up. She changes tracks, not needing the reminder of her amateur lust-driven Oliver related missteps. 

“How’d you and Lyla end up working with two different agencies? Is that why you got divorced?” 

Diggle sighs. “I was wondering how long you’d be able to hold out for.” 

“C’mon, Digg. You can’t just drop that on me, and not tell me anything. We’re partners! She seems pretty badass. I like her.” 

“We met in the army. Young, stupid fools who got married impulsively because when you’re fighting a war, you don’t... you don’t take anything for granted. When we came home, reality was different. Too different. She joined ARGUS first and... ARGUS wasn’t - still isn’t - my idea of a noble agency.” 

“Because they do really shady things like plant an operative as a Russian mafia boss for years and years and get them to lie to other innocent people about who they are?”

That makes Diggle smile. “Yeah, something like that. ARGUS acts in the grey area. There is no good or bad with them, just what’s most convenient for the outcome that they desire. I don’t - I cannot condone that.” 

“So you got a divorce because of it?” 

“Ah, there’s more to it, but when your core values don’t line up, you can’t really... start a life together. There were a lot of secrets, white lies, actual lies. Not the kind of life, or the family, I wanted.” 

“Right.” 

The revelation is sad and sobering. They looked like they’d be good together. She never pictured Digg to be a family man, not because she didn’t think he could be one, but because it never occurred to her that he could have a life outside of all of this. Now that the image has been planted in her head though, she thinks that he’d be a good dad. Gentle and kind. Stern, yet empathetic. 

Not that she has a particularly good yardstick when it comes to dads in general. 

Felicity turns back to the front of the car, a million more questions floating about in her head, but she’d rather get her thoughts in order first before asking Diggle some of the curlier questions that are hounding her. She knows she has to tread lightly, be careful about being too nosy - which is hard for her. 

“Why were you so upset with Oliver?” 

Digg’s question catches her by surprise. She turns to him. “Huh?” 

Diggle shrugs. “You nearly had a panic attack when Oliver told you he works for ARGUS. I get being angry at him for lying to us, but you looked like he’d killed your favourite... what are those Dr. Who things you like called? Adipose.” 

“Oliver would _definitely_ would kill an adipose,” she mutters under her breath. She clears her throat. “I wasn’t having a panic attack, okay? I just...”

What? 

How is she supposed to articulate the sinking, swirling, pit of despair that had formed in her gut when she found out his entire existence was a lie? She doesn’t know what it means herself, except that it came a close second to the devastation she had to endure when her father walked out on her. 

“I trusted him,” she manages to say. 

It’s kind of the truth. She did trust him. More than she should have. She’d been drawn to him right from the start; first out of sheer curiosity, and then as she spent more time with him, something else about him had pulled her in. Their constant flirtation notwithstanding, she had felt a sense of familiarity with him and it had called out to her (at times inconvenient) desire to help people. Help him.

“What did you think you were going to help him with, Felicity?” 

Frack. Said that out loud. 

“I don’t know, okay?” she whines. “His humanity? I thought maybe he could be _more_ than a murderous Russian mobster. Maybe even convince him to go see his family and tell them he’s not dead, that he didn’t just up and _leave them_ and -” 

“You’re projecting, Felicity.” 

She sinks into her seat. “I’m not.” 

“Just because _your_ father left you-”

“Do _NOT_ talk about my father!” She regrets her outburst immediately. “I’m sorry. Didn’t mean to snap at you.” 

“It’s fine.” Diggle. Sweet, understanding Diggle. She doesn’t know what she’s done in her past life to deserve having a Training Officer, then a partner, like him, but she’s grateful. She reaches a hand out to squeeze his forearm. He sends her a gentle smile in return. 

“How about we table all talk of this... messy situation until we can figure it all out? HQ needs to know what happened before we make any other moves. Why don’t you try and get some sleep? Lyla was right, you look beat.”

He’s not wrong; now that the adrenaline from the day has worn off, a bone-deep exhaustion has taken over her body. Her wound from being grazed by a stray bullet earlier is smarting, painkillers wearing off, though not too much that it prevents her from pulling her feet up and curling into a ball in her seat. 

The steady rumble of the van’s engine provides just enough white noise that she’s lulled into a dreamless sleep for the next couple of hours. Eventually, after what feels like a lifetime, Diggle pulls up to their firehouse and she’s jerked awake by the van rolling to a sudden stop. 

“We’re home?” she asks with bleary eyes, unfolding herself and sitting upright again. Her entire body is aching from sleeping in that awkward position and she stretches her arms up over her head. Her fingers close around the door handle. “Wow, when did this dump become _home?”_

“It won’t be home for much longer, hopefully,” Diggle says. He doesn’t kill the engine, nor does he make a move to get out of the car. “You go in. I need to get to Quantico and speak with Lance.”

Felicity gapes at him. “You’re going back now? In the middle of the night? What about me?” Her voice drops into a whisper. “What if the Odessa comes to get me? Oliver might be a fake gang member, but the Russian mafia is very _real,_ Digg!”

God, she falls asleep for like, a second, and _this_ is what happens? 

“I don’t like it either, but a command is a command and Lance -” Digg pulls up his phone and waves it at her. “- wants a face to face update. I won’t be gone for long. I trust you, Felicity. I know you can take care of yourself. Just lock all your doors, stay put and get some rest. Think you can do that?” 

Felicity’s torn. On one hand, she’s glad she won’t be around to hear Lance rip Digg a new one for letting this mission go as sideways as it has. On the other, she’s also miffed that they’re leaving her out of a critical mission briefing and that’s hardly fair.

“I’ll let you know what goes down in Quantico, I promise,” Digg tells her as if he can read her mind. “Now go. Get some sleep. I’ll be back soon, okay?” 

“Okay, fine,” she mutters. She opens the door to get out. It’s not like she’s terribly keen on the idea of getting on a red eye to face her superiors with like, zero real sleep anyway. She sticks her head through the open door before she slams it shut. “Drive safe. Goodnight!” 

Her backpack feels like it’s laden with the heaviest rocks and the stinging pain in her arm has started to flare up again. Okay, so maybe Digg had some valid points about her needing some rest. Her mouth cracks open in a wide yawn as she inputs the code into the building on autopilot. It beeps once, letting her in, and then she’s trudging up the stairs, feet heavy and very much looking forward to a nice, long bath. 

It’s hard to believe that just that morning, she’d been pleasantly surprised on this very same flight of stairs by a fresh faced Oliver, coffee and bagels in hand, along with her wandering thoughts about how considerate he is, for a Russian gang leader. Who knew it would only take one eventful trip to Hub City to dismantle -

Her shriek is unearthly, bouncing off the industrial walls in the corridor that leads to her loft.

_“Oliver?!”_

Her hand flies to her racing heart, wide-eyed as she takes in the silhouette leaning against her makeshift front door. 

“What the _hell_ are you doing here!?” she hisses at him. Did she _conjure_ him here just by thinking about him? To his credit, Oliver backs up straight away, hands in the air to show her that he’s unarmed.

God, she’s so _done_ of all of this that she very nearly stomps her foot in frustration. She lets her backpack slide off her shoulders, and it says a lot about her state of mind that she doesn’t even flinch at the sound of her precious equipment thudding on the ground. 

“Can you wait ‘til I’ve changed into my pajamas before you kill me?” she snips, scowling as she digs into her pocket for her keys. 

Oliver mumbles something under his breath, but his words are drowned out by the anger rushing in her ears, spreading fire and indignance through her because how _dare_ he show up here, at her home, unannounced, with no regard whatsoever to the fact that it’s close to midnight and how exhausted she is?

“I’m not going to kill you,” Oliver grumps, a little on the loud side, sounding like he’s the one frustrated at her. He takes a few steps forward, testing the waters, but Felicity's too tired to deal with him so she just opens her door and walks inside. 

His quiet, uncharacteristic plea follows her, lingering in the air. “Felicity... please can we just talk?” 

She blows out a long suffering breath before turning around to face him. He’s hovering by the doorway like a vampire waiting for an invitation, and, yeah okay. _Okay._

Tousled hair, heavy five o’clock shadowed Oliver is a sight to behold. He’s changed from his earlier outfit, dressed in a more casual dark blue shirt that falls over his bulk in all the right places. HIs sleeves are rolled up to just below his elbows, showcasing his extremely solid forearms, tense and bulging from the way he’s clenching his fists. 

Couple all of that with the sheepish, apologetic, way he’s bowing his head, and Felicity feels her resolve crumble. Just a little. 

Her plan for the rest of the night, or morning, rather, is to go through a solid amount of alcohol she’d accumulated in the loft, have a nice, long bath and then binge watch TV shows until Digg returns. Not necessarily in that order. Oliver’s sudden presence only _really_ affects the bath, and plus, if he wants to talk, she kinda wants to listen. 

She purses her lips at her options: hear him out and give him a second chance at getting back into her good books, or sending him away and forgetting she ever crossed paths with him for the rest of her life. 

Screw it. Drinking’s better with company anyway. 

Her eyes flutter shut. She huffs. “How do you feel about Dr. Who?” 

Oliver blinks at her in surprise. “Um. If it means I can come in, then I love it.” 

“Good enough.” Felicity waves him in. “Bring my backpack in too, will you?” She says over a sigh. 

Might as well make use of his muscles while he’s here. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alone in her apartment now - whatever can these two get up to, I wonder? 
> 
> Thanks all, I've thoroughly enjoyed your response for the last couple of chapters. Reading your reactions to the reveal was a gem, and has been an utter delight. Love you, and hope you keep enjoying this! 
> 
> Twitter:@griever_11


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is very unapologetically rated E, so you know, don't read this out loud at work or something :)

**February 2014, Starling City, Felicity’s Apartment**

It’s a little hard to believe that she let him in. 

Well, technically, she let him in, growled something like _don’t touch anything_ before disappearing, leaving him standing alone in her living room, her bag dangling from his hand. 

So okay, she let him in, but whether or not she’s still pissed off at him is another question altogether. He hums under his breath as he takes a look around, for lack of anything better to do. 

Now that he knows the truth about her and Diggle, her loft makes a lot more sense. It’s a glorified safe house, explaining the lack of personal items and the distinct ‘un-Felicity’ness of the place - not that he spends a lot of time thinking about things that are Felicity, or un-Felicity, of course. 

But the _point_ is that she let him into her apartment. First hurdle crossed. Next one: try to talk to her without getting into another shouting match because if they do end up arguing, he will undoubtedly lose because her Loud Voice is _terrifying._

Oliver doesn’t know what he expects out of this visit. To be fair, he didn’t know what he expected when he raced back from Hub City earlier that evening either. In fact, he’d planned on giving her some space from all of this, but about an hour away from the outskirts of Starling City, after having driven almost on autopilot the whole way back, it dawns on him that the strange, hollow feeling in his gut was because he wanted, no, _needed,_ to see her. 

He needed to replace the look of contempt and utter betrayal on her face and the only way he can do that is to try and make amends with her. 

It also occurs to him that for the first time in a long time, someone other than Lyla knows the truth, his _real truth,_ and his entire being, even if he hadn’t realised what it was at first, was clamoring for her, yearning for the strange, calming acceptance that he’s only ever experienced whenever he’s around her. 

Which, now that he thinks about it, probably contributed to the desperate longing in his gut that made him come to her in the first place. Only, he’s been in her apartment for a whole fifteen minutes and all he’s received from her is attitude and the acceptance he’s seeking is nowhere to be seen. 

_Felicity_ is nowhere to be seen. Maybe she’s trying to avoid him? 

“Where do you want your bag?” he yells, trying to see if he can coax her out from wherever she is, but also because he knows better than to dump her precious tech just _anywhere._

“I don’t care. I don’t want to look at that for at least another five hours.”

He whips his head around, not expecting to hear her response so closely behind him. His heart jumps to his throat at the sight of her, fresh faced, arms folded across her chest.

God, she’s beautiful. 

For a moment, when he was loitering in her hallway waiting for her to arrive home, he thought that maybe the fact that she lied about who she was would diminish her overall attractiveness to him, but boy, was he wrong. 

If anything, knowing that she’s a federal agent only increases her appeal, much to his chagrin, and now, even with the angry crinkle between her eyes and the way she’s all tense and stiff in front of him, he’s inexplicably still drawn to her. 

She’s swamped in an oversized MIT hoodie, hair falling in loose, wavy curls down her shoulders. It’s a stark reminder that despite being FBI, she is, at the core of it all, still Felicity. It provides him with an unusual sense of comfort that amidst her cover story and her secrets, there’s a chance that he already knows a little bit of the real Felicity underneath. 

Until that is, he drops his gaze to her pants and his eyebrows go all the way up to his hairline. They’re yoga pants, from what he can tell - but it’s not the style that’s surprised him. It’s the small QC logo printed all over the sleek, black material that makes him blink twice at her. 

“What? You’ve never seen a girl in pajamas before?” she grumps. She pulls on the bottom of her hoodie, as if she’s trying to protect her modesty, even though it’s an _oversized hoodie._ “What am I saying? Of course you have. You’re _Oliver Queen._ Although, maybe that means you see them in... no pajamas? Or naked? Or -”

_“No!”_ He chokes, interrupting her before she projects more naked imagery (naked _Felicity)_ into his brain. “No, it’s not that.” 

He lets her bag slide slowly out of his hand. “Queen Consolidated?” he whispers, pointing to her pants. 

Felicity looks down. “Oh. Right. Guess I never... It never really came up.” 

“No, it didn’t,” Oliver grits through his teeth. “How did you get them?”

The universe is a cruel place. 

He _just_ made peace with the revelations from this afternoon, and then he finds out information like this that upends everything he thinks he knows about her and his mood dips. His temper, cultivated from years of dealing with reprehensible criminals, flares up and he has to ball his hands into fists to keep himself in check.

“I worked for them. You. Well, your family,” Felicity’s telling him, completely unaware of Oliver’s building conflict. She yawns, wide and unashamed, then shrugs - like it means _nothing_ that she worked for his family, that she _knew_ them personally - and picks her bag up from where it had landed at his feet and makes her way to her little kitchenette. 

Oliver just stares, gaping at her. 

She flings open some cabinets, hunting around for something on her tips of her toes. As exasperated as he is by her casual demeanor, he can’t help the stirring in his jeans at the sight of her ass wiggling in the air as she stretches towards the higher shelves. 

“It was before I joined the FBI. I worked in the IT department. I saw your face every day on that giant portrait in the QC lobby, you know? The one of your entire family? Let me tell you, your hair is _a lot_ nicer now. You want wine? Or beer?” 

She’s so _glib_ about it all that a surge of irritation courses through him. How can she be thinking about drinking when she’s just dropped this bombshell on him? 

He stalks over to her, forgetting the reason that he’s here in the first place is to talk to her and not get into another argument. But now his head’s clouded; battered by an avalanche of questions and forbidden thoughts about his family - thoughts that he never allowed himself to entertain the entire time he’s been with ARGUS.

“Hey! Look at me!” he snaps, grabbing her by her waist and turns her around. 

She yelps, abandoning the bottle of wine she’s been trying to uncork. Her mouth twists angrily as she faces him, both hands coming up to shove at his chest on instinct. He doesn’t budge, and Felicity scowls, though he notes that she doesn’t use any real effort to get away from him either. 

He takes advantage of this, leaning in, keeping a careful eye on her just in case she decides that she isn’t comfortable with how close he is. He may be annoyed, but he’s not a _jerk._ Felicity arches an eyebrow at him, looking pointedly at where his hand are still holding onto her waist, then back up to face. 

Right. He lets his hands fall. 

“Tell me about Queen Consolidated.” 

He’s aware that it really isn’t his place to make demands of her, especially since they haven’t quite established where they stand with each other yet. But the temptation is too overwhelming. His need to know more about his family is overriding everything else at the moment so he abandons his reservations temporarily. 

“What do you want?” Felicity sighs, eyes fluttering shut for a second. “My entire history with QC? It’s not a huge one, I wasn’t there for very long, and it was before the FBI so it has nothing to do with the assignment. I wouldn’t put your family in danger, Oliver.” 

“No, it’s not that.” He huffs. Warm affection blooms in chest at her reassurance, and it helps settle him, just a little. “I meant, did you... did you ever work for my mother? Did you see Thea?” 

Oh, that... hurts. A lot. Bringing them up, even superficially like this, threatens to unearth years and years of feelings that he’s tried so hard to bury deep within himself, for the sake of his cover. 

There’s a reason he doesn’t allow himself to talk about his family and it’s _this;_ the painful twist in his stomach, the way his heart shrivels up in his chest when he thinks about what he must have put them through. Guilt cuts into him. More questions start crowding in his head. Was she there when they declared him dead? How did his mother take it, how did _Thea?_

“You knew who I was when you met me, and you said nothing about it. You didn’t even - I...” He falters, caught up in his emotions, still so unused to being able to talk so freely with someone about his family like this. His jaw clenches involuntarily. 

“I would’ve liked to have known, Felicity.” 

_“_ Why are you getting all pissy at me about this?” Felicity clicks her tongue in exasperation. She runs a hand through her hair, distracting him momentarily with the way her hair slides through her fingers so smoothly, falling away like silk. He wonders what her hair would feel like under his fingers. 

“How did you think that conversation was going to go? ‘Hey, Oliver, your mother’s doing well. So’s Thea, despite them thinking that you’re dead. By the way, I know this because I was working with QC before the FBI yanked me out of my cubicle to join them, just thought you should know, since we’re such good friends and all.’”

“Hey, Oliver,” she rattles on, rolling her eyes. Her voice picks up a mocking tone. “I know we just met, and you’re the head of the Russian mafia, but do you have a second so I can catch you up on all things Queen family related since you’ve been _‘dead’_ for so long?” 

“Hey, Oliver-“

“Enough,” Oliver stops her. Fine. Maybe she has a point. Felicity tilts her head up at him, smirking, knowing she’s won this round. 

“I was undercover, you know that,” she continues, this time with a little less aggression. “I had my orders, and so did you. Stop being a goddamn hypocrite like you haven’t been lying to me this whole time with every word that came out of your stupid mouth too.” 

“My stupid mouth?” he parrots. “That’s... I’m not - I’m not even -” he sputters incoherently then gives up.

On a good day he has trouble focusing whenever Felicity’s around. Now? With her so keyed up, so beautiful in her indignation, in such close proximity, he never stood a chance. He’s already lost track of what they’re arguing about, or even if they _are_ arguing.

“Not even what?” Felicity asks, picking the conversation thread, ignoring his futile attempts at a full sentence. She shifts on her feet, then suddenly she raises her hand and pokes him on his chest. _Hard._ “Not even sorry? Because you really should be.”

Oliver frowns, eyes falling to his chest to stare at her slender finger resting on his chest. Pink nail polish. Cute. Her nails were purple just last week. Does she have a rotating schedule of colours that she - 

“Oliver! Are you listening to me?” 

Oh, right. He blinks at her, coming back into himself, suddenly hyper aware that they're still ensconced in a corner of her small kitchen, neither one of them having budged an inch since he trapped her there. It takes him a moment to remember what she’s talking about - an apology. 

Yeah, okay, he can apologise. He opens his mouth to do exactly that, but Felicity beats him to it. 

“Hmmm, you can start with apologising for interrupting wine night.” 

“I-”

She purses her lips and pokes him again. “Or! Sorry for making me think you were a crazy dangerous Odessa mob boss who could kill me at any given time?” 

Her finger stabs him once more. “Sorry for coming here in the middle of the night, scaring me out of my wits, for overreacting and getting upset that I kept something from you that I didn’t know I _wasn’t_ suppose to?” 

She punctuates that last one with _two_ painful jabs against his pectorals, and in the back of his mind, he suspects she’s actually doing it for fun, just to see how much he allows her to get away with before he breaks. 

“Okay, stop that,” he growls, catching her hand with his before she can attack him again. He circles her wrists with his fingers, glaring at her audacity. She stares right back at him, unflinching. 

So brave. 

“I _am_ sorry,” he says with conviction once he’s certain she won’t interrupt him. It’s genuine, heartfelt, and he hopes it comes across as such. He tightens his hold around her wrists. His voice cracks, dropping into a low, gruff murmur as he follows it up with a sincere, “I really am, Felicity. For everything you just said, including the overreacting.” 

Because she’s right, of course. He doesn’t want to leave Felicity's apartment tonight with her still upset at him, so Oliver doesn’t back down from her scrutiny, leaving himself open, allowing her to come to her own conclusions about him. 

He can give her that much. 

Except, instead of acknowledging his apology, Felicity goes quiet and completely still. Her eyes are fixed on his face, lips pursed in contemplation. Silence isn’t necessarily a good thing with Felicity, and as the seconds tick by without a word from her, his anxiety spikes. 

“Um... did you hear me?” He swallows the uncertainty that’s crawling under his skin. He lets go of her hands, taking a small step back. Pleads with her with his eyes. “I need you to say something, please?” 

Her tongue darts out between her lips - okay, so she _is_ still alive - and then her throat bobs once. Her eyes sparkle with mischief. 

“I’m still deciding if that’s good enough of an apology.”

What? Another streak of irritation slices through him. Is she serious? She’s seriously the most infuriating, annoying, painstakingly frustrating person he’s ever met.

“Good enough? What - what do you mean good -” he sputters. He inches close, studying her face with intent, then lets his voice take on the dangerous, more sinister quality he only ever uses with when he’s Oliver Queen, mob boss. “Just in case you’ve forgotten, you lied to me too! Where’s _my_ apology?” 

_“Oh.”_

Oliver blinks, startled. 

He expected her to yell back at him. Maybe? Or some other kind of feisty response, for sure. He definitely did _not_ expect the quiet exhale of her breath, the almost inaudible single syllable that comes from her lips instead.

Her cheeks are slowly turning bright pink, he notes with sudden interest. So is her neck. His fingers, still loosely circling her wrists, just catches the quickening of her pulse before she pulls her hand out of his. She’s tugs at the hem of her hoodie, fidgeting, and yeah, she’s aggravating, but she’s also rather endearing like this.

What’s making her blush so hard? Oliver wonders. What’s she thinking of that’s clearly distracted her from answering his question? All he’s done so far is say -

Oh, was it - was it his _voice_? 

Just like that, something shifts between them. 

Monumentally. 

The tense atmosphere that had permeated around them before dissipates, instantly replaced with a different kind of tension. Far more palpable; thicker, layered with the heady combination of crackling desire, confusion and quite possibly, a touch of anticipation. 

“Felicity,” he says, dropping a sly smile as he bows his head down to look into her eyes. “What, _‘oh’_?” 

She stays silent, but turns even redder. She stops fidgeting with her hoodie. Pinches her lips together. Her eyes dart back and forth between his eyes and his lips and he knows with _utmost certainty_ that she’s felt the change in the air around them too. 

“Nothing!” she squeaks. Except that it’s obviously _not_ nothing because she’s all skittish and red-faced and he’s quite tempted to pull the collar of her hoodie down past her neck to see exactly how far down her body her blush extends to. 

He gets half-hard at the stray thought. 

How is it possible that wants to both strangle _and_ kiss her at the same time? How does she do that to him? He’s the fucking leader of a Russian mob, a very experienced ARGUS agent who has gone through absolutely terrible shit in his lifetime, and he’s still constantly being undone by her. 

She’s not even _doing_ anything right now. 

He mutters under his breath. “God, you’re so _frustrating.”_

_“I’m_ frustrating?” Felicity finally breaks her self-imposed silence, her voice kicking up an entire octave higher than usual. 

“Yeah, you!” he shoots back, venting. “I never know what to expect with you, _ever._ You’re so hot and cold around me, you’re -”

_“Me?_ Oliver, you’re - you’re the one standing there, apologising one second, then you’re _growling_ at me, and now you’re flirting like you’re some sexy -” she breaks off, sucking in a breath. She averts her gaze.

Sexy. 

_Sexy?_

She grabs at the material of his shirt before he can examine that any further, twisting it in her small hands. Oliver grunts in surprise, catching himself before he stumbles into her. His hand comes up to cup her elbows to steady himself, and his heart jumps at their proximity.

_“You’re_ the one who’s -” Felicity starts again, and then she stops herself, mouth snapping shut and he can see her swallowing whatever else she wants to say that’s on the tip of her tongue, as if she’s only just realised how close they are to each other. Which is odd, because she’s the one with her fists curled against his chest, gripping his shirt so tightly that he can’t back away even if he wants to. 

He doesn't want to. 

Oliver breathes in deeply, willing his heart to calm the hell down. The lingering scent of her perfume wafting around them adds fuel the fire that she’s unintentionally stoking in him. And then her legs, her long, QC-adorned, yoga pants clad legs, bump into his, alerting him to the fact that certain parts of him are really, _really_ enjoying the intimacy. 

“I’m the one who what, Felicity?” he prods, letting his voice drop. Felicity shivers, and Oliver files that piece of information away for later. “Tell me, Felicity.” 

Oliver barely has time to register the way her fingers clutch at his shirt tighter, doesn’t have time to realise that suddenly, her entire body is pressed up against his, and he _definitely_ doesn’t hear her strangled: 

“You know what, _fuck_ this.” 

Until her lips are on his. 

Her lips are on his, insistent and punishing, and he’s frozen. 

She’s _kissing_ him and he’s _fucking frozen_ in shock. His hands, still around her elbows, are his saving grace, sliding up to her cheeks, holding her in place as he allows his slow-moving brain to catch up to what’s happening. 

_She’s kissing him._

And then he comes alive.

* * *

Their one stolen kiss has plagued Oliver almost every waking moment since the day it happened. It had been forbidden, stolen in the darkness of Kord Industries’ server room, tainted by the lies they both were telling one another, and yet, for Oliver, had been one of the most _memorable_ kisses he’s ever had in his life. 

Until now. 

Until this one. 

Felicity’s warm and pliant in his arms, arching on her toes as she claims his lips with her own. She’s setting his entire body aflame, each press of her wet, supple flesh against his sending toe-curling jolts of electric through his system. 

“Jesus, Felicity,” Oliver moans. 

She pulls back, just a little and _God_ , does he want to wipe that smirk right off her face. “I’ve been thinking about this - about kissing you - since... the last time I kissed you,” she tells him breathlessly, before inching upwards and kissing him again, open-mouthed and filthy, stroking her tongue into his mouth. 

“What happened to -” Oliver’s cut short by her teeth pulling on his bottom lip, and he groans, distracted. She soothes the temporary pain by sucking on said lip after a moment, whimpering as she has to let him go to breathe. 

“What happened to forgetting it ever happened?” Oliver teases. “You insisted-”

“Shut up.” Felicity rolls her hips against his, quirking an eyebrow as she comes across the evidence of how much he’s enjoying himself. “We both know there wasn’t a chance in hell I was going to forget it.” 

Oliver laughs, kissing her briefly again, tasting her, savouring every bit of her that she will allow him to have. He slides his tongue into her mouth, taking control of the situation momentarily, and her resulting sigh of pleasure makes goosebumps erupt all over his skin. 

He’s never felt like this before. 

So completely overwhelmed, like he’s drowning in her and he never wants to come up for air. 

Her hands move up from the front of his chest to his shoulders, fingers digging in as she tries to find purchase, like she wants to _climb_ him and - 

Oh, that’s a nice idea. 

He groans into her, catching her bottom lip with his teeth, sucking hard as he slips a hand around her waist and lifts her up. Helping her along, that’s all. Her legs wrap around either side of him immediately, bringing her flush against his growing erection and they both sigh simultaneously. 

“Up. There,” Felicity demands, swinging one hand behind her, waving at her countertop.

Yes. Good plan. 

He takes the two steps required so that he can set her on the counter, and then he’s back to devouring her. He curves his hands over her ass, oh how much does he love her ass, urging her to keep rolling her hips against him, and she readily complies. 

Her willingness to indulge him is breathtaking, quite literally, and Oliver pauses for a second to suck in a gulp of air. “You’re driving me crazy, Felicity.” 

“Good,” she murmurs. She takes the opportunity to slide her hands under his shirt, leaning in to nuzzle his neck at the same time. 

Oliver jerks at the skin on skin contact. Her hands - her wicked, cold, hands - drag slowly up his abs, agonising and torturous in their path upwards. Coupled with the way she’s sucking persistently along the pulsing tendon in his neck, it’s all Oliver can do not to succumb to the ridiculous roller-coaster of sensations she’s invoking in him. 

“Abs. So many abs,” Felicity’s mumbling in between her kisses, licking her way under his jaw. She scratches her nails along the hard ridges he spends so much time at the gym for, making him shiver with delight. His cock grows harder still, straining against the zipper of his jeans. God, he needs to regain some semblance of control over himself or else - 

“Ah, Felicity.” Oliver pants, palming her cheek, guiding her away from his neck. When she whines in protest, he kisses her again. “Do you want to _see_ my abs?” 

The look she gives him is positively wanton. She bites her lip and nods quickly. “Uh-huh.” 

She uncurls her legs from him, letting him step back to lift his shirt over his head. He swears he sees her pupils dilate in real time. He preens inwardly. 

_“Jesus,_ Oliver. Look at you.” 

And then Felicity’s hooking her legs back around his waist, planting her lips back on his. Her hands spread wide all over his front, scrambling for some sort of hold on him, fingernails once again digging into his flesh as she keens into his mouth. The dichotomy of pain from her nails and pleasure from _everything else_ is really, really doing it for him, and it seems Felicity’s also picked up on it. 

He nudges his hips against her body, eliciting a dirty cry from her lips as he makes contact with her centre. Her legs tighten around him, keeping him there, and then he moves again, thrusting against her because how can he _not?_

Felicity’s panting in his ear now, both her arms moving up to his shoulders, holding on as he thrusts rhythmically against her, seeking some reprieve from the throbbing, borderline painful way his cock’s pressed up against the front of his jeans. She leans in to steal another kiss from him. 

“Never thought I’d be making out with a Russian mob boss.” 

Just like that, it’s like Felicity’s doused them both with a bucket load of icy cold water. 

Oliver stumbles backwards, away from her, hands shoving her legs off of him. _“Wait.”_

“Fuck, what - where are you going?” Felicity growls. She’s wild-eyed, frantic, chest heaving as she glares at him with a combination of simmering heat and disappointment. “Are you _kidding_ me, Oliver?!” 

“No, no,” Oliver sucks in a breath, trying to clear the fog of lust in his head. Damn it. He shouldn’t have let it get this far. He knows better. He _should_ know better. He has so much baggage, a past tainted with darkness and the unfathomable things he’s had to do for ARGUS and he wants none of that to touch her. 

Doesn’t want to dim her light. 

“You’re right, I’m a Russian mob boss. I’m dangerous, Felicity,” he tells her, forcing down the lump in his throat. It feels like he’s letting what could be the best thing in his life slip right to his fingers. He exhales, long and shaky. “The Odessa is-” 

“Is your _cover,”_ Felicity snaps. She’s having none of it, clearly. “Oh my God, Oliver! Are you telling me you don’t want this right now?” Felicity hops off the counter and storms towards him angrily. Her eyes drop to the crotch of his pants. “Because it really felt like you did.” 

“Of course, I do,” he rasps, still riding lingering waves of hot desire in his veins. He can’t lie to her. Not when the evidence is right there, awkwardly present between them. “But we -” 

_“We_ are on the same side now,” Felicity interrupts him again. 

She reaches out to touch him, fingers gliding up the bare skin of his torso. She traces the outlines of his scars, scratching her nails lightly over the tattoo over his left chest. Reminding him of the way her touch, mere seconds ago, had awakened parts of him that he thought he’d lost a long time ago. 

Oliver stays completely still, sucking in deep, calming breaths. He _does_ want this. He wants her so badly that his whole body is trembling with the effort _not_ to push her back up on that counter and have his way with her. 

“We’re on the same side,” she repeats quietly, seemingly entranced by whatever invisible picture her nails are sketching on his skin. “You’re not the enemy anymore.” 

He gets what she’s saying, he does. _Wanting_ her isn’t wrong anymore. Kissing her isn’t forbidden, and he hasn’t felt this desperate to be with someone in so long, maybe ever, and he _can’t_ \- he doesn’t think he has it in him to deny her what she clearly wants, but... 

“Felicity, this isn’t a good id -”

“God, Oliver,” Felicity bites out, nails pricking the skin of his bare shoulders. Her touch truly is scorching, burning him from the outside in. “Why can’t you let yourself... want things? Don’t you want to feel things other than anger and resentment and guilt for once?” 

He tries to reason with her, albeit half-heartedly. “Don’t you think we should talk about-”

“No. I’m done talking. This doesn’t have to mean anything more than what it is. We were on a roll before don’t you want to get back to that?” 

She punctuates her question by pulling his face down to hers, both hands cupping jaw. Her fingers scratches his day-long beard and he - oh, wow. The sensation amplifies the deep-seated longing within him, pleasure sizzling right down between his legs. 

_He wants her so much._

His hands move to her waist on their own accord, fingers grazing over the top of her yoga pants, skimming over the strip of skin above it. Following his lead, her hand drops away from his face and toys with the waistband of his jeans as well. 

His resolve is slipping, and fast. 

“Why are you always arguing with me?” Felicity asks. Her eyes stare into his, her pupils blown, dark with desire. The top of her nose brushes against his. Her lips butterflies over his own, the contact so fleeting he thinks he imagined it. 

“Oliver,” she murmurs against his lips. Her tongue seeks his out. He feels one of her hands slide around to the front of his jeans. “If you want this as much as I do, stop arguing with me, please?” 

His eyes flutter shut as he groans with anticipation. His breathing stutters. He curves his body over hers, his hands encompassing the entirety of her ass, holding her against him, leaving no question about how much he does want this, and when she finally, _finally_ cups him through his jeans, firm and confident, and so _solidly_ \- 

Oliver gives in. 

He unleashes an animalistic growl as he lifts her up and walks them back to the counter that’s fast becoming his most favourite surface ever. “Okay, fine, no more arguing.”

His kiss is punishing, stealing gasps and moans from her lips, slicking his tongue into her warm mouth. Claiming her as his own. His hands slide under the skin tight material of her yoga pants, cupping her bare ass with in his palms, pulling her against him as he sets her down on the edge. 

Her hands fumble with his belt buckle, then his button. His pants fall to his in an unceremonious pile around his ankles before her steps out of them and then -

“Oh, _shit,_ Felicity!" he curses, screwing his eyes shut when she finally sets him free, her fingers pulling him out of his boxers, stroking him as he bucks wildly into her grasp. He watches, transfixed, as Felicity squeezes his shaft, massaging him with expertise she shouldn't have, like she knows instinctively just how he likes to be handled. 

His brain shorts out, unable to focus on anything else except the pure, unadulterated pleasure singing in his blood. Her fingers circle around his cock, jerking up and down, spreading pre-cum all over his length, the movement is sleek and slippery and it’s so good, it feels _too_ good. He’s been worked up all fucking night and he’s so, so close to the edge of completely falling apart.

He thrusts into her hand, quick and dirty, seeking relief. Her name falls like a prayer from his lips. _Fuck -_ he’s going to blow his load right there if she keeps this up and he’s not having a bar of that. 

With a strangled groan, he gives her ass one final quick squeeze before pulling both his hands out of her pants and gently removes her very skilled ones off of him. He silences her protests by kissing her, thanking her with his tongue, cupping her face, stroking her cheek slowly with the tips of his fingers. 

When he pulls back, Felicity covers his hands with hers, winking, and then places them on the elastic waistband of her yoga pants, curling them down. Yeah. Message received. Two seconds later, he’s pulling her pants off of her. Felicity helps, kicking the last of the material off her feet before she’s tugging him back to her, legs tight around his hips, her hands back on his shoulders, and oh, wow, she’s so _wet._

His fingers dive between her legs, slipping through her slippery folds, drawing a long, filthy moan from her. Felicity widens her legs and he takes it as permission for him to slide two fingers inside her dripping heat. Her groan is loud and unashamed; she’s so responsive to his touch, it’s ridiculous _. Jesus._

His thumb finds her clit easily, pressing against the swollen nub in small circles as he thrusts rhythmically into her, delighting in the way Felicity tilts her head back, arching her neck, gasping in time with his ministrations. 

“I want to taste you,” he growls. His mouth waters at the thought. He licks his lips before pulling his fingers from her, shoving them straight into his mouth. Her flavour bursts on his tongue, salty and sweet and so Felicity and immediately, he wants _more._ He glides a hand up her thigh, using the other to bunch her hoodie up to her waist as he attempts to get to his knees. 

“No, fuck - _Oliv-uh,_ ” Felicity whimpers as she tightens her legs around him, halting his journey down. She taps him on his shoulder, making him stand back up. She whips her hoodie off her body and his eyes glaze over at the sight of her stiff, pebbled nipples. He wants to taste those too. 

“No, no more foreplay,” Felicity says, reading his mind. “I need - need you. Now.”

Fuck. He really wanted to - 

“C’mon, Oliver,” Felicity whines. She’s breathless, hair mussed, lips swollen. Positively ravaged. “Later. You can taste the rest of me later. _I need you,_ Oliver.” 

“Yeah okay, okay,” Oliver agrees. He’s going to hold her to that - her promise of later. “Condom,” he pants, unable to form full coherent sentences. “One sec.” 

He’s digging through his fallen jeans in a flash, finding what he’s looking for instantly. Felicity snatches it out of his hands, ripping the foil with ease. She’s so quick and efficient, before he knows it, her fingers are back on him, pumping him a few times for good measure.

Her legs hook around him once more, her arms curling under his armpits, fingers twining behind his head to keep them plastered together. Her breasts feel so delicious against him, soft and supple, nipples hard on his skin. 

_“Now,_ Oliver,” she instructs, nibbling on his earlobe. “C’mon. Where were we?” 

He enters her with a single powerful thrust and they fall against each other with loud, satisfied moans. Molten heat surrounds him, enveloping and all-encompassing, her walls squeezing him as he pulls back and thrusts into her again. 

And again. 

Felicity sinks her teeth into his shoulder, nails digging into his scalp, riding him as she picks up on his rhythm. She holds on tight as he powers into her, knees pressing into his ribcage, crossing her ankles behind him. She’s half hanging off the edge of the counter top, and Oliver’s hands travel down to rest on her lower back, supporting her as he snaps his hips back and forth, picking up the pace with every slide in. 

She’s moaning in his ear, nonsensical words, alternating between biting and sucking whatever part of his body she can get to. Everything she’s doing heightens the electrifying sensations unfurling in him. He’s losing his tempo, focused on nothing by the obscene sounds of their skin slapping against each other, on the slick mess he can feel dripping down between where they’re so intimately joined. 

“Felicity,” Oliver pants. Fuck. He can’t - he’s been riled up for far too long tonight. “This - this is gonna have to be quick.” 

“Yeah, I know, me too, Oliver,” she growls. “Right there with you.” She spreads her legs a little, changing up the angle, and a loud, toe-curling groan echoes through her entire apartment. He feels her clenching him with her inner muscles, feels the familiar tingling spreading from the base of his balls as she starts chanting his name over and over and over. 

He loses all sense of time then, driving and pounding into Felicity like a man possessed. He keeps his eyes on hers, drinking her in, memorising every passionate twitch and every gasp he manages to pull from her with each punishing thrust.

And then without warning, her entire body slams into him, her back bowing as her mouth drops open in a silent scream. She spasms around his cock, her orgasm ripping violently through her and it’s enough to trigger his own blinding orgasm. 

Holding her close, sweat slicked and shaking with desperation to finish with her, Oliver thrusts into her one final time, hard and deep, feeling Felicity’s aftershocks vibrating through both their bodies and a second later, his balls tighten, his vision goes white, and with a deafening roar, he’s tumbling over the edge into oblivion with her. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's always a level of nerves that accompany a chapter like this, so as always, I do hope you enjoyed this and that you don't feel like throwing this fic out the window or something. 
> 
> Love you all a lot, and hope you stick with me for this last bunch of chapters til the end! 
> 
> xoxo 
> 
> Twitter: @griever_11


	12. Chapter 12

**February 2014, Starling City, Felicity’s Apartment**

Felicity wakes up slowly. It’s early, sunshine barely filtering in through the half-drawn blinds and she flings her arm out, feeling around for her glasses before jamming them on her face. She’s not a morning person and it always takes her a good amount of time to fully gain awareness. 

Today however, when she blinks the final vestiges of sleep from her eyes, she finds that her body is humming with contentment and warmth that she hasn’t felt in a really long time. 

“Oh!” 

She jerks upright as the memories of the night before come flooding back. Her blanket falls away and she’s made acutely aware that she’s naked - duh, because _last night_ \- and she scrambles to pull the covers back up, getting to her knees, turning to the space next to her and _yup._

There he is. Which means last night wasn't an exhaustion-driven fever dream and that she did have sex - _a lot_ of sex - with Oliver Queen. 

“Hi,” Oliver drawls when their eyes meet. 

Her body goes from being comfortably warm to panty-dropping _hot_ in seconds. 

He looks deliciously rumpled sitting up against her headboard; his hair is a complete mess, his beard thicker than she’s ever seen and his bare chest is littered with not just the scars that she discovered the night before, but also the red marks her nails left on his skin. Angry, crescent-shaped cuts along the top of his shoulder, across his pecs and all over his abs.

A flush spreads over her cheeks as she recalls the way she sat astride him during Round 3 (or 2.5? Maybe?), raking her fingers over his body, taking her time appreciating his physique and his seemingly unending stamina. Mmm. She licks her lips and flicks her gaze back up to his face. 

“Hi,” she greets, her voice hoarse from overuse. “Sorry about the -” Her fingers curl into mock-claws and she tilts her head, indicating to his body. "- scratching." 

“I’m not.” Oliver laughs. It’s loud, full bellied, so _unguarded,_ that Felicity can’t fight the urge to crawl up to him for an impulsive good morning kiss. 

Oliver accepts it with enthusiasm, worrying his teeth over her bottom lip the moment they make contact. Her blanket is bunched up between them but that doesn’t deter him one bit, banding his arms around her waist as he pulls her close. His palms spread over the expanse of her back, holding her to him as she sinks into the kiss. 

Her body reacts instantly, desire stirring low in her belly and she purrs in delight at the lovely, thrilling sensations he’s invoking in her. 

Maybe being a morning person isn’t so bad after all. 

“How long have you been awake?” she asks, pulling away once she’s had her fill of him. She yawns. “The sun’s barely up.” 

The small talk thing is a little awkward, she won’t deny that. It’s been a while since she spent the night with a man, much less someone with Oliver’s complicated history (and hotness!) so she’s out of her depth. In the light of a new day, it seems almost surreal that she’s here, having a somewhat normal conversation after one of the most physically demanding nights of her life, and she’s including her time training at the Academy. 

“I don’t really need much sleep. I’ve been awake for a while, but I didn’t want to -” Oliver breaks off, chuckling softly. “I didn’t want to risk you waking up and um... finding me gone.” 

She stares at him in wonder. Oliver Queen, former Starling City playboy, current ARGUS-slash-Odessa bad boy, was worried about her waking up to a cold bed? It doesn’t gel with her image of him, but she’s quickly learning, as of last night at least, that Oliver’s _very_ multi-faceted. Super intriguing. She decides on the spot that she likes that about it. 

“That’s...” She falters. Words, what are words? How do you tell a guy that you kind of like waking up to him and his gorgeous face after just one night together, when your relationship is still quite undefined, without coming across as clingy and needy? 

“... nice,” she finishes lamely. 

Oliver squeezes her waist. A shadow flickers over his expression. He fidgets uneasily, like he’s trying to get her to move off him. He averts his gaze. “Do you want me to go? I know we didn’t talk about what this means for us, so I can go -” 

“No!” Felicity plants both her hands over his chest, keeping him in place. Oh, his skin is so hot. She applies a little pressure against him, forcing him to look at her. She states firmly, “No, that’s not what I meant. At all. I don’t want you to go.” 

Belatedly, she realises that having her hands flat on him means they’re not holding her blanket up anymore, and Oliver’s eyes drop to her bare breasts in an instant. His fingers dig into her sides before slowly dragging their way up to rest over her rib cage. His thumbs extend out, brushing the skin under her breasts as he exhales audibly. 

When he looks back up at her, his eyes are wide, pupils darker than usual and his face is tinged pink. 

He blinks at her like he’s lost track of the conversation. A smile grows slowly over his face. “So... I can stay?” 

Yeah, that’s flattering. Adorable even, to an extent, that her invitation for him to stay can make him look this happy. 

“If you want to,” she offers before going in for another kiss. 

Her lips part at his insistent tongue and she forgets about being modest, wriggling closer so she can run her hands all over his delectable, statuesque body. Her nipples pebble the moment she’s flush against him and they both groan at the feeling. Her eyes flutter shut, savouring the way warm need rolls leisurely through her. 

“Do you want breakfast?” Olive murmurs against her lips in between kisses. "Pancakes?" 

“Aren’t _you_ my breakfast?” she counters without thinking, to which Oliver laughs at, the vibrations from his chest travelling all the way through her own naked body. 

Her eyes fly open when she realises what she just said and she pulls her bottom lip between her teeth. Her finger traces the outline of the strange, dark, star shaped tattoo on his left chest. She kisses him again to hide her embarrassment before speaking against his lips.

“But breakfast pancakes or whatever, that’s good too.” 

She can feel his smile get bigger and it’s comforting that he’s taking her embarrassing blunders in his stride. He always has, Felicity reminds herself. Even before he ever saw her naked. 

“I can go make us pancakes now,” he offers in a low, raspy rumble. 

So it turns out the single-minded focus that Felicity had reaped the benefits of last night also applies to breakfast foods. How can he be thinking about pancakes right now when all she can think about is licking her way up his abs? Seriously, Oliver? 

“Pancakes now, and you can have me later,” he tries again. 

Felicity hesitates. _Later_ is dangerous. Later implies bursting this sensual bubble they’ve created around themselves and facing the real world. She’ll have to figure out the USB drive, this thing between ARGUS and the FBI and which agency is actually running the show, plus, at some point, they’ll have to deal with what last night means for the both of them.

It's a lot. Just thinking about it all makes her want to throw up. 

“Hey, it’s going to be okay,” Oliver tells her as if he’s reading her mind. He curves a hand around her neck, pulling her in for a sweet, chaste kiss. “I can see you’re about to freak out, don’t freak out.” 

“Why aren’t _you_ freaking out?” she grumbles, pulling away, taking her blanket with her. She rolls onto her side, facing away from him. It’s clear she’s not getting any sexy, naked time with him right now. What a waste of abs. 

“Oh, right, because you’re _Oliver Queen,”_ she continues, mostly to herself. 

She doesn’t voice the next part out loud, which is that he’s not freaking out because he’s a badass ARGUS agent; charming, a flirt, hot, and probably gives _all_ the girls he knows the best sex of their lives like, all the time, while being simultaneously pulling off all the secret agent-ing that he has to do. This mess they're in must be a run-of-the-mill type of situation for him, if he's thinking about something as mundane as breakfast. 

_Ugh._

She runs her hand through her hair and grimaces when her fingers get caught in her tangled knots. God, she must look like such a mess. Unlike him, who’s just sitting there, sure, a little breathless, but otherwise all put together and _hot._ Waking up looking perfect is probably normal for him too. 

“Nothing about this is normal for me,” Oliver assures her, though he sounds far more amused that she thinks he should be. She feels the bed dip behind her, hears him shuffling and moving around and then Oliver’s leaning over her shoulder, his chin resting against her arm. 

“I haven’t done this-” He breaks off laughing at Felicity's wide-eyed disbelief. “Okay, obviously I've done the _sex_ before, but it has been a really long time. And the other stuff? This USB drive? This is new to me too, okay? It's turned my entire world upside down. _You've_ turned my world upside down, Felicity.”

The bold proclamation makes goosebumps erupt all over her skin. Before she can over-analyse what he means, Oliver starts trailing kisses down her bare arm, nudging closer, scraping his beard over her skin, his naked body pressing deliciously against her back. He’s half-hard, nestled between her ass, and Felicity groans, burying her head into her pillow. 

“I’m just hungry, that’s all," he murmurs. "I promise we’ll get back to the good stuff right after.” He nips at her shoulder, biting down gently to get his point across. He pushes his hips into her playfully. " _Really_ good stuff.” 

“Don’t tease me, Oliver,” she whines. Except, now that Oliver’s mentioned being hungry, she realises that her stomach’s woefully empty too. When was the last time she ate? 

Too long ago. 

She pops an eye open, half-turning her head to Oliver, who’s now busy snuggling into her neck, tongue dipping into the hollow space of her collar bone. He tastes her languidly, and she wonders if he’s changed his mind about getting actual food. 

If he has, too bad, because the idea of fluffy pancakes has now cemented in her head and she recognises the churning in her stomach as one of hunger instead of lust and she dislodges him as she turns fully onto her back. 

“Go make pancakes,” she orders. “I’m hungry now.” 

With a laugh and agility Felicity’s never seen before in her life, Oliver bounds off her bed stark naked. She drags her gaze down his body - mmm, nice - bites her lip and screws her eye shut in an attempt to get a hold of herself.

“Go, _go_ already!”

* * *

Inevitably, Oliver realises that her pantry does not, in fact, have any of the things he needs to actually make them breakfast and Felicity only just manages to hear him shout over the spray of her shower that he’s heading out to go buy them breakfast instead. 

Which, at the time, seemed like a great idea because _food,_ yes. But now that she’s freshly showered, free of post-coital endorphins, and alone in her apartment sans Oliver’s distracting, intoxicating presence, she finds herself entertaining a lot of thoughts that she had ignored and pushed away while she was busy having her way with Oliver the night before. 

Things like what Oliver’s agenda is, for one. If he’s still playing some sort of long con with her, how he’s managed to pull off being Oliver Queen and the leader of the Odessa for so many years. If being undercover, and specifically, undercover with Oliver for so long, has affected her judgement. She’d been upset, _so_ upset, when she found out about him being a double agent and all it took was one spontaneous visit from him and she's okay with it now? Really?

Randomly, she wonders if she had been drugged at some point yesterday because she’s usually _never_ this reckless or impulsive when it comes to sleeping with someone. 

Except of course, she’s never before encountered the kind of overwhelming, all-encompassing feelings she has whenever she’s around Oliver. The spark between them has always been there, from the moment they met, but over time, their connection has only intensified and Felicity doesn’t know what to do about it. 

Besides, well, have mind-blowing, life-altering sex with him, obviously. 

“Stupid hot Oliver,” she mutters, making her way to the bag she’d left on the kitchen counter. She doesn't have the energy to focus on Oliver right now so shem ight as well start working on decrypting the data they managed to recover from the server bank while waiting for him to return. 

Pulling out the electronics from her bag, she breathes a sigh of relief that nothing seems broken beyond repair. She takes everything back to the living room to set up, unable to help the blush that climbs up her cheeks when she walks past the spot on her counter where Oliver had taken her the first time. 

She shakes her head. Yeah. Definitely time to focus on things _other_ than Oliver and what his body can do to her. 

She’s immersed in her work the moment her laptop powers up. Taking a break from it last night had been a good idea; her brief interlude has done wonders for her concentration, it seems, because she’s flying through the data, piecing together what she downloaded from the servers with what she’d managed to pull from Oliver’s USB drive.

“It’s a digital transmitter,” Felicity realises with a start halfway through her decryption process. She scans the code before her again to be sure. _“Son of a bitch.”_

Her heart races. 

She’s seen this before, a long, _long_ time ago. 

Before the FBI, even before MIT. She stumbled upon it one day while lurking in the dark web, her curiosity leading her into the more questionable corners of the internet. The code’s been upgraded, tweaked and improvised, but her gut tells her she’s knows she’s right. But for once, being right doesn't provide her with any comfort at all. 

The wave of trepidation that washes over her is unpleasant. A weird heaviness settles over her heart. If she’s right - and she’s about 90% sure she is - then she needs to get the information off the to the FBI right now. It won't be good for her - she knows this. It might even jeopardise everything she's done so far, but a job is a job and she pulls up the secure FBI portal and sends through what she has to them. 

Her computer beeps with a connection error. 

“Argh!!” She slams her fists on the table. 

Which is exactly when her front door slams open with a loud bang and she squeals in surprise, a high-pitched shriek leaving her lips as she whirls around to face the front door. 

She’s ready to berate Oliver for scaring her, and also for taking so long with breakfast, except when Oliver walks through the door, he’s very closely followed by both Diggle and Lyla and Felicity's admonishment dies on her lips. 

“Uh... hey, guys.” she says instead, eyes darting back and forth between the three of them. 

Digg shouldn’t be home yet. There’s no way he flew to Quantico, met with Lance and flew back in eight hours. Which can only mean he never left Starling. Something’s wrong. Like, really wrong, for Digg to disobey a direct order from Lance. 

She looks frantically at Oliver, who, unhelpfully, is giving a stare so heated it might just melt her shorts off her legs. 

_Jesus._

Do Digg and Lyla know what they did last night? Is that why Digg is here? Is that why they look like they’re both about to murder someone? And if so, why her and not _Oliver?_

She scrambles to her feet, wincing at the pins and needles in her legs from sitting in the same position for so long. 

“What - what’s up, guys?” Why, _dear God,_ does she sound like that - oh, right. Screaming. Lots of it, last night. She clears her throat. Runs a hand through her hair. 

“They were coming upstairs when I came back from the store,” Oliver finally offers as a half-explanation. He darts around the other two, dropping the paper bags he’d been carrying on the ground and comes to stand next to her. His closeness is comforting, and the wrinkle between his forehead indicates he doesn’t know the reason for Lyla and Diggle’s expressions either. 

“We need to have a... talk,” Diggle says. 

Diggle turns to lock the door, enabling the security protocols that basically turns her apartment into an impenetrable fortress. Overkill, Felicity thinks, but she won’t question him. 

“I’m sorry for barging in like this,” Lyla adds. “But Johnny thought it would be a good idea for me to be here too. Lucky for us you're already here, Oliver.”

Oliver shifts, his hand coming up to rest against the small of Felicity's back in what could be construed as a very intimate gesture. Are they - she casts him a sidelong glance - are they not _hiding_ what they did from Digg and Lyla? Because he’s not being subtle, at all. 

“So wait, we’re doing this together? We’re... we can work together on this USB thing?” Oliver asks hopefully. “Joint task force?” 

His fingers graze over the waistband of her denim shorts, and if she’s not mistaken, there’s a slight hint of excitement in his voice. Incorrigible. 

Digg and Lyla exchange strange expressions with each other. 

_Okay._ Enough of this. They’re all here, and if Digg and Lyla are going to be all quiet and secretive, then so be it. She's going to tell them what she’s found.

Felicity takes a step away from Oliver, not willing to risk being distracted by his wandering hands when she relays her news to them. She ignores his huff and prepares herself for what she wants to tell them. 

“Actually, this is great timing,” Felicity says. She tips her head to her laptop. “‘Cause I found something from the data we recovered at the server bank. And it coincides with what I already know about the USB drive. It’s -” 

“That can wait, Felicity,” Diggle interrupts gruffly. He marches forward, grabbing Felicity’s hand as he walks past, ignoring her indignant ‘Hey!’ and he leads her to the couch in the living room. 

“Sit.” he orders. “You too, Queen.” 

Oliver sinks into the spot next to her. He gives her a look. 

“What? I don’t know what this is about either,” she grumbles. “Unless it’s to talk about the birds and the bees because _you_ can’t -” Felicity drops her voice into a whisper. “- keep that I-just-had-sex-all-night smirk off your dumb face!” 

“I don’t have a -” 

“Be quiet, you two!”

Felicity snaps her mouth shut and turns back to Digg. 

Oh, this is _serious_ serious.. Digg has the most severe frown on his face, all stony and fierce, and when Lyla comes to join him to sit opposite her and Oliver, she looks just as grim. 

“You said you worked in Starling before you joined the FBI?” Lyla asks Felicity. 

“Yeah...” Her conversation with Oliver comes to the forefront of her mind. “At Queen Consolidated, actually. Small world.” 

Digg sighs, running his hand over his face. “Not so small.” 

Oliver sits up. “What do you mean?” he asks sharply. 

The cold dread in Felicity’s gut from earlier intensifies. She feels her throat closing up. She thought the information she gathered from her hacking had been bad enough, but this seems worse. Way worse. 

Diggle and Lyla turn to each other, and then they nod once. Diggle lets out a breath, then quietly, announces, “We’ve all been played.” 

Lyla continues. “The FBI played us.”

* * *

The atmosphere in Felicity’s apartment is tense, to say the least. Diggle and Lyla are leaning against the far wall in the living room, and Felicity’s pacing back and forth, muttering to herself, all fired up, glaring at both Digg and Lyla with every pass she makes in front of them. 

“The FBI played us,” Felicity repeats for the millionth time like she’s trying to convince herself with every iteration of the phrase. “We were _played_ by the FBI. The people I work for."

Oliver’s heart breaks for her. The bombshell that Diggle and Lyla had just dropped on them is huge. Monumental in its implications, now more than ever, since missing his debriefing with the FBI means Diggle and Felicity have officially gone rogue. 

And as far as Oliver's aware, the Bureau doesn’t take too kindly to rogue agents. 

“Let me get this straight,” Felicity continues in a shaky voice. “The FBI knew that ARGUS had an inside man in the Odessa _the whole time._ They already knew about Oliver before they sent me and Digg in. So all that stuff about trying to figure who leads the Odessa, about how the Odessa works, all that was bullshit?”

“Yes.” Diggle rolls his neck, wincing as he tries to loosen his muscles. “And no.” 

The man looks exhausted, and Oliver suspects he hasn’t slept a wink since he dropped Felicity off at her door last night. Diggle waves his hand in Lyla’s direction, indicating for her to take over the explanations.

“According to _my_ Director, the FBI has been trying to sabotage our Odessa operation for years. They want their own man on the inside and it’s been a sore spot that we got there first. They probably wanted you in there so they could use you, your connection to Starling and Queen consolidated to eventually take over the operation,” Lyla says. “Not that I knew anything about this until yesterday, of course.” 

“How did you find out then? Felicity asks sharply. “Did ARGUS just suddenly offer up this information out of the kindness of their heart?” 

Lyla grimaces, but takes Felicity’s tone in her stride. “When we left the server bank in Hub City the Director called to ask why we didn’t have the USB drive in our possession. I told her that we’d used a third party contractor to retrieve it, _you,_ and that we’d have to get back to Starling to get the information. As it turns out, when I gave them your name, they already knew who you were.” 

_“ARGUS_ knows about me?” Felicity stops pacing. She looks at Oliver, accusing, and he shakes his head. This is all news to him too. It stings, _just a little,_ that she thinks that he could be hiding this from her, but considering the circumstances, he understands. 

“Yes,” Lyla repeats apologetically. “You _and_ your affiliation with the FBI.”

“That’s... not possible,” Felicity whispers in shock. She turns to Diggle. “The FBI’s undercover techs should have wiped all of that when they sent us in! What were they doing? I knew I should have done it myself. This is the stuff I do _in my sleep!_ Oh my God! Did they even do a back-” 

_“Felicity,_ that’s not the point.” Diggle states. “We can deal with that later. Right now, what’s important is -” 

Lyla cuts him off. “What’s important is that shit literally hit the fan when the ARGUS Director found out the FBI has their fingers in this mess and that’s when I called Johnny.” 

“I was on my way to the airport to see Lance, but Lyla said it was important so I met up with her,” Diggle confirms. “We finally put everything we know about the operation, and this mission about the USB drive together, and we realised that neither ARGUS nor the FBI were giving us the full picture.”

Under the weight of the information being thrown at him, Oliver finally bursts. He has been trying so hard to keep track of what any of this means and he suspects his brain is still working at half-speed, not having recovered from Felicity and her ridiculously hot body, but _nothing_ is sticking.

“So what _is_ the full picture!? You guys are saying a lot of things, and _nothing_ at the same time!” 

Oliver pinches the bridge of his nose, closing his hands into fists to keep his mounting frustration at bay. His feet won't stop bouncing against the floor. Frustration ebbs through him. 

“All this seems pretty inconsequential if you ask me. So what if the FBI lied about the Odessa? What - _how_ \- does that change anything? We’re all still after the same thing, aren’t we? Trying to figure out who made the USB drive and trying to stop them from accessing the federal communications network?” 

“It’s more than that though,” Diggle cuts in. “The FBI - and ARGUS, by extension - already know who’s behind the USB drive. Or they have an idea, at least.”

_“What?!”_ Felicity’s voice joins his, but then she keeps going, louder, and much angrier. “What do you mean, they already knew? I’ve just spent months _\- MONTHS! -_ trying to figure this out and you’re saying it was all for _nothing?!”_

She advances on Diggle, fury rolling off her in waves, but Oliver gets to his feet and grabs her before she does something stupid. He puts himself in her path, hands on her shoulder. 

Her anger is scary, but he’s well-versed in the art of losing his temper and in his experience, while useful in getting results from mafia members, it isn’t as productive when talking to the more upstanding members of society. 

"Felicity, let him explain.” 

Her shoulders are tense and he gives her a quick squeeze, trying to soothe her ire. From this close, he can see traces of the beard burn he left along her collar bone from last night, and amidst the chaos, a bloom of pride surges through him. 

“Stop looking at me like that,” Felicity snaps, and then shrugs his hands off her and not very gently shoves him back onto the couch. She folds her arms over her chest. “Well, explain then, Digg, I’m waiting.” 

“It appears that they’ve had a feeling about who the drive belongs to all along, if ARGUS intel is to be believed. The FBI needed someone to infiltrate the Odessa to get the drive so they could be sure about who wrote it, and then they needed someone to lure him out. Sending you in was... killing two birds with one stone. I don’t know why, and I don’t know if _they_ know who he is exactly, but they were using you to get to this guy.” He finishes on a sigh, regret echoing through the apartment. 

“He’s basically a ghost. ARGUS can’t get to him either,” Lyla chimes in. “I don’t know why the FBI had to lie to you. There’s got to be a reason, and we don’t think it’s a good one, but the point is that we think they’ve been planning this since they day they recruited you.”

“You say recruited, but you mean when they _blackmailed_ me into joining them in exchange for not charging me for hacking into their database.” Felicity snorts with derision. 

Oliver sinks into the couch, mouth dropping open in surprise. “They blackmailed you?” 

She lets out a laugh of disbelief, clenching and unclenching her fists. She ignores his question and resumes pacing back and forth in front of him.

“You’re telling me that they went through all that trouble, put me through the FBI training academy _just_ to get to this guy? Are you kidding me? Is- That doesn’t make any se-” Felicity shakes her head. “Why me? What’s so special... oh.” 

She falters. Her eyes glaze over as her eyebrows furrow. 

Worry sparks in Oliver’s chest. 

She blinks, looking at each one of them in turn, but something tells Oliver she’s not actually seeing any of them. Felicity shuts down. _Entirely._ Her face is wiped clean of every trace of emotion that up until a second ago, had been openly on display. 

This scares him more than her anger. 

“I...” Felicity clears her throat. Her posture shifts as she deflates, all the fight going out of her. Like she’s just flipped a switch within herself, Oliver senses the moment she slips into professional FBI Agent Felicity mode. 

“I found something in the data I decrypted this morning.”

She’s off in a flurry, collecting her laptop, dismissing the wary looks Lyla and Diggle give her. She places it on the coffee table before sitting down on the couch next to him.

“Every hacker has a signature, a way of marking what’s theirs. A program, a piece of tech, anything they’ve written,” she tells them, flipping her laptop open and spinning it so the rest of them can see the screen. Whatever she’s showing them is gibberish to him, but both Lyla and Diggle nod their heads. 

“It wasn’t easy, but underneath a whole bunch of code and red herrings, I found the signature for this hack - it’s a digital transmitter. It uses an old eavesdropping protocol as a base of the program that’s listening in on the communications network. Old, but reliable. It’s been upgraded, of course, but the signature’s still there. There's some stuff in here that I'm unfamiliar with, but that's not important right now.” 

“I’m telling you this because there’s a... legend in the dark web,” Felicity murmurs. “Someone who wrote the hacker’s bible, so to speak. Every cyber-criminal, hacktivist, hell, every computer science major worth their salt would have used some of this person’s work in one way or another.” 

Oliver doesn’t understand a lot of the jargon that flies out of her mouth from that point on, and takes in maybe half of what she’s rattling off; he’s sure Lyla and Diggle are paying enough attention for all of them. So instead, he keeps a close eye on her mannerisms and her body language, simultaneously impressed by the way she seems completely detached, and also concerned because something about this feels _off._

She’s pointedly avoiding looking at any of them directly as she speaks. Oliver doesn’t claim to know Felicity _that_ well, but his ever trusty gut instinct is raising all sorts of alarms. She’s speaking too clinically without a single sign of the familiar lilt of her voice nor her trademark cheer, though, he supposes there’s nothing cheerful about any of this. 

“There are rumours that this person is responsible for a whole lot of pretty serious crap, funding war criminals, digital espionage, things like that, but nothing has ever been proven. He went underground years ago and disappeared off the face of the planet, but I guess you never know with hackers, do you? I mean, if anyone can disappear and _not_ disappear at the same time, it’ll be someone like him.”

“Anyway, the old protocol that the transmitter is based on, it’s _his._ And I’m willing to bet that the tweaks to the code was also done by this same person.” 

Oliver shakes off his growing sense of foreboding momentarily, glad he’s able to finally understand one thing out of this entire mess. 

“So you’re saying that whoever made this drive, whoever hacked into the server bank - is this legendary hacker person?” 

“I’m pretty sure, yeah,” Felicity confirms.

“Could someone be pretending to be him? Or have faked this digital signature thing?” Diggle asks. 

Felicity shakes her head. “We don’t do that,” she says quickly. She presses her lips together and lets out a nervous chuckle. “I mean, um, _hackers_ don’t do that. And I’m not a hacker. Anymore. Honor among thieves, you know. You don’t use someone else’s signature. Ever.” 

Lyla walks over to the couch, taking a seat next to Felicity, pulling the laptop over to scan it herself. She mutters something unintelligible under her breath, and then returns the laptop to Felicity. 

“Okay, okay, this is great. You figured out who he is, that means we’re on even footing as the FBI and ARGUS. Now what do we want to do? Going back to ARGUS or FBI is out of the question, seeing as how we’re most likely already classified as agents gone rogue by now.”

Oliver detects the urgency underlying Lyla’s words and it’s reflected in the grim set of her face and in the way she’s glancing at her phone, then her watch every few seconds or so. 

Lyla places a hand on Felicity’s shoulder in a display of uncharacteristic sympathy. “The people we work for are after this guy, and are clearly are not opposed to using questionable means to do so. Let’s assume since Johnny failed to show for his debriefing, the FBI knows that we know they lied to you, so the faster we get to the bottom of this, the better it is for all of us. We need a plan.” 

Diggle nods in agreement. 

“So who is this guy anyway, Felicity?” he asks. “This legendary hacker. Maybe if we can figure out why the FBI wants to use you to get him, we can start sorting out this mess.” 

“Um.” Felicity swallows visibly, hesitating. Her knee starts jiggling. 

Despite the potential maiming Felicity might subject him to, Oliver places a hand on her knee to calm her down. Comically, all three sets of eyes that don’t belong to him shift to focus on his hand - Diggle’s in particular feels a little hostile - and Oliver pulls it away immediately. 

Right, so _Lyla_ can touch Felicity, but Oliver tries to comfort her and it’s like he’s diseased or something. He moves an inch away from her for sheer measure. 

Felicity releases a puff of air from her lips, chuckling lightly in amusement as if she can read his mind. Yeah, okay, he’ll endure all of Diggle’s reproachful glares if it means it can coax a smile like that out of her.

“Well,” Felicity says, squaring her shoulders. “The hacker, he’s called... he calls himself the Calculator.” 

Lyla hums under her breath. Diggle lift his eyebrows. “Well, damn. I know that name. He’s on the FBI’s most wanted list. Definitely could be responsible for everything you just said but what does that have to do with _you,_ exactly? Why use you to draw him out?” 

Felicity lets out a long, heavy sigh. She runs a hand through her hair, and then alarmingly, she bows her head down and pulls her glasses off, tossing them carelessly onto the coffee table. 

Oliver exchanges a panicked look with Diggle. 

Felicity presses down on her eyelids with the bottom of her palms. 

“I think... I think it’s because he’s my father.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hands up if you saw that coming! :D 
> 
> Anyway, thank you for all your lovely feedback last chapter, sex clearly trends well with y'all :) Love you guys, so so much. I really appreciate all your comments and kudos. 
> 
> We're on the final stretch of this fic now so I'd say hold on, it's going to be a wild one from here on in :) 
> 
> Twitter: @griever_11


	13. Chapter 13

**February 2014, Starling City, Ex-Firehouse Rooftop**

It’s cold outside. 

Felicity hadn’t thought about that when she left her apartment and made her way up to the roof. She had needed some space; a brief respite from the ridiculous, almost unbelievable situation unfolding before her and the weather had been the last thing on her mind. 

Now though, as she shivers quietly, she wishes she brought a blanket or something to combat the blustery wind. She’s still shaking off the goosebumps-inducing chills from finding out she been a mere pawn for the FBI over the last four months, she really doesn’t need to literally freeze her ass off out here as well. 

She leans against the metal railing, blowing hot air into her palms as she looks down on the rest of the Glades in all its industrial glory. Hard to believe that it's been four months since she came back here. Four months living a life that isn't quite hers, hacking her way through most of the criminal organisations for the FBI, only to find out that it's all been one big, fat, giant lie. 

“Welcome to the FBI, Felicity, hang tight, we’re gonna send you undercover so we can lure a criminal mastermind out into the open because you share DNA with him. What an excellent plan!”

She growls under her breath. “Doesn’t matter that we’re going to _lie_ to you about all of it from the very beginning, but if you can try not to get killed by the Odessa before you get the Calculator that would be _so_ great. Oh, by the way, their leader is Oliver Queen, sex on legs, who’s meant to be dead, but you don’t need to know that.”

Felicity halts her mental tirade, startling herself. “Oh my God, I technically had sex with a dead guy.” She moans, horrified. “I had sex with a _zombie!”_

“One, a zombie, _really?_ Was the sex that bad? Two, talking to yourself is the first sign of insanity, according to some people."

Felicity groans as she turns around. Oliver’s head sticks out of the roof door, a hopeful, almost tentative expression on his face. He gives her a hesitant smile, and when she doesn’t tell him to go away, he steps through and walks towards her. 

“My father is a criminal mastermind, so insanity’s probably in the gene pool already,” Felicity mutters bitterly. She ignores the comment about the sex. He knows full well it had been mind-blowing. “What are you doing here?”

She told the rest of their ragtag team when she came up here that she needed a moment to herself and to go ahead with planning whatever their next move is going to be without her. Yet, here he is, disregarding her request like the stubborn oaf that he is. She should have known he wouldn’t listen. 

“I got worried.” He shrugs, ambling up to join her at the railing. He doesn’t touch her, but he gives her a loaded stare, intense and heated. “I missed you, criminal mastermind genetics and all.”

Her breath catches in her throat and she shies away, turning to look out at the rest of the Glades instead. This is definitely not the time to let him charm the pants off of her, even if he’s really good at it. 

“I said I wanted to be alone,” she reminds him pointedly. 

“Yeah, well, Lyla and Diggle are doing their thing and figuring stuff out. Anatoly’s holding down the fort at headquarters-”

“Are you really thinking about the mafia _right now?”_ Felicity interjects incredulously. 

_“My_ cover hasn’t been blown,” Oliver explains. “Lyla thinks it’s safer to maintain status quo for as long as possible. And she's the boss.”

It’s smart, Felicity admits begrudgingly. Why rock the boat more than necessary? They’ve got enough on their plate without having to worry about the Russian mafia coming for them when they find out about Oliver’s deception. 

“Anyway -” Oliver sidles closer, as if he thinks Felicity won’t notice his subtle movement - yeah, he’s a big man. _Nothing_ about him is subtle. He clears his throat. “- since everything else is being taken care of, I found myself with nothing to do and wanted to check if maybe you want to be alone... together?” 

Felicity tilts her head at him, lips pursed, half-amused. “Does that line work with other girls?” 

“I can be quiet, I swear,” he insists, brushing off her candid remark. “I just - Okay, I know you said you wanted to be alone, but I didn’t want you to _feel_ like you were alone through all of this. Lyla and Diggle are off in their own world down there, planning whatever, and you know, we never did get to talk properly this morning. Or have breakfast. But mostly, we didn't get to talk and now we've got a moment to ourselves and I thought...” 

Felicity sighs. Okay, fine, Oliver might be a stubborn oaf, but at least he’s a cute, thoughtful one. Suppressing a smile, she presses her lips together before shaking her head. “Kinda sounds like you’re babbling a little there, mister.” 

Oliver turns a nice shade of pink, but doesn’t back down. Instead, he comes even closer, and the air between them thrums with undefined energy. 

“You’ve rubbed off on me, clearly,” Oliver murmurs. “But um, I’ll leave if you really want me to.”

He raises a hand to cup her cheek, slowly, like he’s checking to see if it’s okay. His palm is warm against the balmy wind and Felicity leans into his touch instinctively. She closes her own fingers around his wrist, keeping him there. 

Her nerves are frayed. Her mind has been racing with what-ifs and whys and hows, but when her eyes flutter shut so that she can take full advantage of his touch, she’s blanketed by a strange sense of peace. 

“You can stay.” 

She barely knows him, what with the lies and their cover identities, their one night of passion notwithstanding, but somehow his presence now is doing wonders. Sure, he’s a shady ARGUS agent masquerading as the ruthless leader of the Russian mafia, but right now? 

He’s just Oliver to her. 

Oliver, who despite his best efforts not to, wears his heart on his sleeve, who is currently emoting with an intensity that both scares and delights her at the same time. Having someone so concerned about her well-being is _nice,_ but the implications are... wide-ranging. She’s confused and uncertain, the two states that Felicity hates being in. 

“What can I do?” Oliver asks, picking up on her distress. How does he manage to do that - read her so well? Is she that obvious? He lifts his hand off her face, and cards his fingers through her windswept hair, trying to untangle the unruly knots that have formed since she came up to the roof.

“Tell me what I can do to make you feel better," he implores.

Her request tumbles out of her mouth before she gives herself a chance to think about it. “Can you give me a hug?” 

All of her sudden he’s surrounding her, one arm banding around her waist and the other cupping the back of her head. Her cheek’s pillowed against the slope of his collar bone, her nose brushing the edge of his jawline. His scent wafts around her, enveloping her in comfortable familiarity.

Oh yes. She inhales deeply. This is exactly what she wanted. _Needed._

All morning, since the multiple bombshells were dropped on them, she’s felt like an exposed live wire, ready to combust at any time and Oliver’s the only person keeping both her feet solidly on the ground.

“Lucky for you, I give really good hugs,” Oliver laughs gently, his chest rumbling beneath her. He toys with the ends of her hair; she feels him twirling sections of her ponytail between his fingers, fascinated. 

They stay like that for what feels like ages. Her fists twist the material of his shirt tightly as she sinks further into his embrace. He’s doing a really good job of centering her, keeping her wild, panic-driven thoughts about their volatile situation at bay. She knows she’ll have to face reality soon, but _boy,_ is he right about giving really good hugs. 

“So about last night,” Oliver prods gently with an air of caution as if he’s afraid to spook her. “I want to um, I want to make sure we’re on the same page, if that’s okay?” 

Felicity pulls her head back. That’s surprising. “Really? In the middle of... all of this?" She leans back, studying his face. He's serious about this. _“Now?”_

Oliver nods earnestly. “Yes.” 

She blinks at him, at a loss for words. 

“Felicity, we’re about to hit a proverbial shitstorm once the FBI figures out you and Diggle have gone rogue. Or when they find out you’re working with ARGUS. Everything is up in the air, unclear, we don't really know what we're doing here. So can we take a minute, just a minute, for us? Please? So that I have _one thing_ that I can be sure about?” 

Untangling herself from his solid, thick arms, she takes a full step back, shivering at the loss of his all-encompassing warmth. She never thought Oliver Queen would be someone who would initiate a relationship-defining conversation, but then again, he’s been full of surprises since day one. 

More pleasant than unpleasant surprises, if she’s really thinking about it. 

“O-kay, then,” she tells him, making a ‘go ahead’ motion with her hands. 

“I like you.” Oliver says with a rush and it seems like he’s been holding _that_ in for a while, because he tips his head to the sky for a second, like a weight has been lifted, before looking back at her. He drops a shy smile on her, small and intimate. 

“Which sounds... juvenile, and so underwhelming, but it’s... it is what it is. You’re the first person in years, Felicity, _years,_ that I’ve made even the slightest connection with and at first it was just so annoying -” 

Felicity frowns. “Wow, that’s flattering.” 

“- and really _frustrating,_ because I didn’t know why you affected me so much. I wanted to be around you all the time, and I wanted you to stay away at the same time - it was... confusing for me.” 

“It took me a while, but eventually I realised it’s because you remind me of home. Of _humanity._ I wanted to be selfish and keep you with me because of it, and another part of me didn’t think I deserved being around you.” 

He speaks to her as though he’s at confession, raw and honest, like he’s carving out a slice of his soul as a sacrificial offering. His face is tinged red from the cold, but a soft smile blooms over his lips. He takes both of her hands in his gently, squeezing them once, like he’s drawing the strength to keep going from her. 

“Stranded on that godforsaken island, and then being recruited into ARGUS after that, stripped me of everything that made me, _me._ They trained me to be an assassin, Felicity. They took me in at my most vulnerable, and used that against me. They threatened to hurt my family if I didn’t comply, they took away my freedom and until you - no, until I walked into that warehouse and found you, I’d lost all hope of ever getting any semblance of a normal life back.” 

Every sentence from his lips swirls around her like a magic blanket, his words etching themselves into her bones, permanently marking her the way the many scars that litter his body weaves an intricate story of survival and loss. 

They’re just words, carefully chosen and delivered with unbridled empathy, but they fill her with a sense of _belonging;_ something she experienced for a fleeting moment when she was a child but has since faded away into obscurity. 

“Oliver,” she whispers. She squeezes his hands back, unable to form a coherent sentence in her head, what with the overwhelming emotions swelling inside her. She tilts her head up to look at him, marveling at the depth of his honesty. “Oliver, I -” 

“You don’t have to say anything,” he tells her gruffly. “I know this is... a lot. I know, but with all that I’ve done, I know first hand how precious time is, and I don’t want... I don’t want you to _not_ know what you mean to me if things go south for us later.” 

This is crazy. 

They barely know each other. Hell, it’s only been _one_ day since the truth about his cover mission came out. He’s still a mystery, really. A spy for ARGUS, an agency known for being unscrupulous and shady in it’s methods, not to mention, he’s still technically the leader of the Russian mafia. 

A voice inside her provides a counterpoint: all of those factors combined doesn’t mean he’s invulnerable to having feelings. It doesn’t mean he’s _lying._

Besides, she feels it too. 

The intensity, the pull, everything he’s talking about. It isn’t just _lust,_ though there’s undoubtedly a lot of that, but something else. Something deeper. Raw and unpolished and _earthy._ Natural. It’s what got her to trust him the moment she met him despite all the warning signs and she knows it had been the same for him. 

_Soulmates,_ the small, tentative voice in her head suggests.

_He_ won’t leave her for no reason, the voice says. In fact, he’s up here on the roof _because_ he couldn’t leave her alone, despite her explicit request to do so. He might not leave her alone for the rest of her life if he has anything to say about it. 

“God,” she breathes, shutting her eyes momentarily. She tightens her grip on Oliver’s hand. “This is so crazy, you’re crazy, what are you doing to me?”

Her mind is jumbled, words getting lost among the cacophony of uncertainty and confusion. Her one constant of always being able to talk is _failing_ her but what she does know is that she wants to give him a chance. Oliver is still largely a mystery, a man with so many tempting layers she has yet to uncover. The memory of waking up next to him is still so fresh in her mind and her body is desperate to relive that same feeling again. 

But she doesn’t know how to articulate any of this into actual, coherent sentences, so she does the only thing she’s wanted to do since his big, smug head popped through the doorway earlier. 

She kisses him. 

Oliver responds eagerly, his lips parting to let her taste as much of him as she wants. She grins into the kiss, their noses bumping clumsily as she stretches up for more. 

She tucks her fingers into the waistband of his jeans, slamming their bodies together as she sucks on his bottom lip. His stubble is going to leave beard burn all over her face, but she’s not put off by it. It’ll match the rest of her body that’s already red and raw in spots from their night’s activities. 

It’s quick and messy, lips and teeth clashing, an accurate representation of the tumultuous morning she’s had. So making out on the roof of her safehouse, in the middle of an inter-agency crisis, desire ratcheting higher and higher with every second that passes by? Par on course for the roller-coaster of a life that she’s led over the last couple of months.

She nips at him for fun. Mm. Juicy. 

Oliver groans, then uses his much bigger body to turn them so his back is against the railing. “Don’t want you to fall over,” he grunts before sliding his hands up the back of her shirt. 

The skin on skin contact sends a thrill down her spine and Felicity hums in delight at the pleasant sensation. She’s surrounded by his heat; the man emanates a ridiculous level of warmth for some reason. Who needs a blanket for the cold when you have Oliver Queen to keep you cosy?

“So you’re okay with this?” he mumbles, pulling away for a breath. His hand slides up to trace an invisible line down her cheek. “You and me?” 

Felicity stares into his eyes and all she can see is pure, unfettered hope and sincerity reflected back her. Ridiculous as the notion is on paper, it appears that he wants to give them a real chance at being together. 

For what seems like the hundredth time in the last month or so, Felicity decides to take the risk, gives in to her impulsiveness that has been the bane of Digg’s frustration, and she nods decisively. 

“Yeah,” she tells him. “Yes, I’m okay with it.” 

The blinding grin that stretches over Oliver’s face is _so_ worth it. Who knew that all it took to tease a smile like that from him, free and genuine, full of happiness, was for her to agree to be with him? 

He leans in to kiss her again and she gets up to the tips of her toes eagerly to meet him halfway. The buzz of excitement does wonders to quell the ever-present shadow of their Calculator problem, and she’d very much like to keep it that way. 

Which of course, means that it’s the perfect time for the roof door to slam open loudly, sending the two of them flying apart. 

“Wha-”

_“Felicity,_ you bit my lip!” 

She turns to Oliver abruptly. Seriously? This is what he’s whining about? 

“No time for your nonsense, Queen, we need to leave,” Lyla barks, storming over to the two of them. 

She pulls Oliver aside, muttering something about leaving her without picking up his gear. Lyla’s fully decked out in her military-issue gear and she proceeds to pull Oliver aside to give him his.

Diggle follows closely behind and Felicity barely has a second to think before he’s throwing her backpack at her. She just about catches it, snagging the straps by the tips of her fingers and she stumbles forward, displaced by the weight. 

“God, what’s in here?” she asks, grimacing. 

“Your things. We’ve been compromised,” he tells her curtly. “Safe house is blown. We have to move.” 

“No, _wait,_ all my stuff -”

“Everything you need is in the bag, Smoak-” Wow, _Smoak._ When was the last time he called her that? The situation must have escalated somehow. “- and the traffic cams put the FBI retrieval team three minutes away so please. _Can. We. Move?!”_

Felicity nods wordlessly, shaking off the last vestiges of Oliver-induced delirium from her system. Diggle helps her to shoulder her backpack, securing it, before patting her once on her back and moving so they’re standing face to face. 

“We’re in this together. All of us,” he murmurs quietly. His eyes dart over to the side where Oliver and Lyla are leaning over the railing, surveying the street below them. “I want you to know I’ve got your back, no matter what happens with the FBI, but you also need to really careful with _him,_ okay?” 

Ah. Caught that, did he? Felicity’s cheeks burn with mild embarrassment. “Yes, _dad.”_

Diggle’s eyes widen in surprise and he steps back, a hint of amusement on his lips. 

“What? Too soon for dad jokes?” Felicity asks. “If it’s not too soon for me, surely it’s not too soon for -” 

“They’re here!” Lyla yells, and the air around them is suddenly charged with a wholly different kind of tension. “Stairwell is out. We’re burnt.” 

“Felicity, did you transmit any of what you found back to the FBI?” Lyla demands as she marches up to her. “The stuff about the Calculator’s signature. Did you send that back to the FBI?” 

Felicity pushes away her rising panic, refusing to let Lyla’s frantic demands get her even more worked up. Surely it isn’t as dire as they’re making it out to be? The FBI aren’t really bad guys. It’s not like the agency she works for is going to do anything drastic just because she figured out their lie? 

... Would they? 

“Um...” She blinks at Lyla. The morning seems so long ago now, it’s surreal how much has changed since she woke up. Oh. “I tried, but the connection was broken, so I’m not sure if anything went through.” 

“Intercepted, then.” Diggle tugs on her backpack and pulls her away. 

“Intercepted?” Felicity repeats, stumbling along, allowing Diggle to lead her wherever he wants to. Lyla and Oliver follow suit, and eventually Felicity realises they’re moving away from the line of sight of anyone who may barge through the roof door unsuspectingly.

Right. This is serious. 

Everything's moving way too fast for her liking. It’s obvious Lyla and Diggle figured something out while she and Oliver were up here talking. Something _big_ if their hastiness is anything to go by. Something that’s led them to believe the FBI would be a hostile adverary. 

“Hey, not that I don’t appreciate the overzealousness, but what do you mean by interce -” 

“Okay, ready!” Oliver calls out. 

Caught unaware, Felicity’s heart jumps and she gasps when she spots him. 

Oliver’s over the other side of the roof railing, feet bent at the knees as he dangles one-handed over the edge. He’s hooked up to an ab-seiling harness and -

“Nope. No, no, no,” Felicity moans as it dawns on her what they’re about to do. She backs up, only to hit the solid wall of Diggle’s body. 

“No, I can’t, Digg!” she whispers, horrified. They’re so high up! They're _on the roof!_

Are they really going to go down the side of the building? Lyla’s already setting her harness up and Oliver’s peering at her curiously, beckoning for her to come closer. 

“How on Earth did you pass this module in the Academy?” Diggle grunts from behind her. “Got no problem fraternising with the enemy, but you won’t go down the side of a building to avoid capture.”

Felicity half-turns her head to face Diggle, gaping at him. “The _enemy?”_ she squawks. “Oliver’s not the enemy, Digg!” 

“Yeah, whatever, quit stalling, lets go.” 

He pushes her forward with zero sympathy, hands clasped tight over her shoulders so she can’t run away, her pitiful whine falling onto deaf ears. They get to the railing and he manhandles her into position, draping a vest over her body and starts setting her up. 

“I nearly didn’t pass the module, you know? I was lucky we were doing buddy jumps,” Felicity babbles. Her eyes are screwed shut and she feels Diggle working around her, clipping carabiners around her waist, adjusting the cord through the loops.

“Really, all I did was close my eyes and hoped for the best. The other rookie did all the work.” 

She swallows at the memory and her gut tightens with nervousness. Goosebumps creep over her skin and the pit of dark trepidation grows even deeper. 

“And then I screamed a lot,” she finishes on a choke. 

“Yeah, well, try not to do that today, okay? It’s a two minute descent, tops. C’mon, with me.” 

Diggle ushers her over the railing, his arms providing steady support as she goes through the motions. Oliver’s concerned face and his subsequent ‘Are you okay?’ goes unanswered as she focuses on not looking down and on not thinking about how the only thing keeping her from falling to certain death is a piece of rope that’s tied around a pole on top of a condemned building. 

Oliver takes the lead, then Lyla goes after him. Felicity follows hesitantly and Diggle brings up the rear. They clear the edge of the rooftop the exact moment she hears the roof door open.

Footsteps pound against the cement floor, distant voices bark orders, yelling out things like ‘fugitive’ and ‘bring them in unharmed’’ and boy, does that send a surge of panic through her entire system. 

Everything after that is a blur. 

Oliver and Lyla pick up their pace, sliding down the entire length of the wall with ease. She hears them unclip themselves and surely that means she’s close to the ground too - 

Oh, _bad idea._ Don’t look down, remember, oh my god. Bile rises up her throat and she flicks her gaze upwards, trying with no avail to wipe the image of the ground looming up at her from her mind’s eye. 

Diggle’s ass is in her face. Her heart is racing so fast she can’t discern one beat from another. Her hands are so sweaty she can’t get a proper hold on the rope. Anxiety spikes, the adrenaline coursing through her veins not helping one bit. 

“Digg,” she whimpers, arms trembling. “I’m not gonna make -” 

And then her foot slips. Momentum sends her entire body swinging rapidly towards the wall. Fear cripples her and she freezes, everything she was taught about cushioning impact flies out the window and then -

Everything goes black. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things are about to get real b u m p y. 
> 
> Again, your thoughts and comments, all your reactions - they really do help me get through the day. thank you so much for your support :) 
> 
> Happy to chat on Twitter: @griever_!1


	14. Chapter 14

**February 2014, Undisclosed Location, Diggle’s Van**

Felicity’s hair glimmers under the light of the afternoon sun, soft and silky, golden, a perfect representation of what her existence has brought into his desolate life; hope in the face of despair, a spark of light amidst the gloomy darkness.

It’s not like Oliver minds the darkness. Or the loneliness. Hell, sometimes he much prefers it over the life he had before the Gambit sank. ARGUS saved him and gave him purpose when he had none. 

What was his life worth back then? He was a good for nothing one percent-er, a horrible boyfriend, a terrible son. So what if he had to give up a couple of years of service to ARGUS in return for saving his worthless life? Everyone important already thinks he’s dead anyway.

It was the least he could do. The one thing he could give them as penance for putting them through so much grief. Their life for his. 

The work he does for ARGUS is ugly and demented; monstrosities that weigh on him daily, keeping him awake at night. But the missions they send him on, in a sick and twisted way, gave him purpose and a reason to keep going. 

Until he met Felicity and everything in his carefully compartmentalised, post-Gambit sinking world imploded.

Felicity, who’s currently bundled in the corner of Diggle’s van, sleeping off her less than graceful descent from the roof earlier. It had been by far the most excruciatingly stressful two minutes of his life watching Diggle get a non-responsive Felicity down to safety before making a hasty getaway while the FBI were still unaware. 

Against Diggle’s protests and Lyla’s clear disapproval, Oliver had taken it upon himself to keep Felicity with him, snatching her from Diggle the moment they got safely on the ground. He was adamant about not letting her out of his sight - and his arms - and had single handedly carried her into the van because look what happened when he _ wasn’t _ the one watching her back. 

Diggle had assured him that it was her crippling fear of heights that had gotten the better of her - and couple that with the ridiculously tumultuous morning they’ve had, and a distinct lack of food since the night before, he was sure that Felicity was merely crashing from a heady adrenaline spike. 

Or so Oliver hopes. 

He hasn’t let go of her hand in the half an hour they’ve been in the van. The yawning chasm of worry in his heart only grows wider with every second that she stays asleep. He spies movement behind her eyelids, which eases the constricted feeling in his chest a little. He wonders what she’s dreaming of, if she’s - 

Right.  _ Enough.  _ He has to think about something else before he drives himself crazy. 

“So you want to tell me why the FBI is after you and Felicity like you’re currently public enemy number one?” he asks, leaning forward to stick his head in the space between the two front seats. 

Both Lyla and Diggle clench their jaws simultaneously, which would be funny, if they weren’t in such dire straits at the moment. 

“We’re not 100% positive, but we suspect the FBI doesn’t want it getting out that they manipulated a civilian into doing their dirty work for them,” Lyla offers, half-turning her head to face him. “Or the fact that they didn’t have the resources to apprehend one of the most wanted criminals in the world and needed her help to do it.”

“Don’t think they’re particularly happy that they’ve also now got two rogue agents who know the FBI fucked up and let the Calculator get his hands on some pretty valuable information that could mean a whole lot of trouble for everyone in the near future,” Diggle adds. 

Lyla nods. “ARGUS, as you can expect, now wants him for this exact same information, which essentially puts both our employers at odds with each other and Felicity right in the middle of it.”

Oliver falls back as digests this. The entire situation is unpleasantly aggravating. Nothing really makes sense, every new lead only adds another layer of complications and Oliver’s just about had enough of being one step behind everyone. 

He’s a brilliant strategist, well-versed in tactical warfare and nothing about what they’re doing sits well with him. They have no plan, no backup,  _ nothing  _ that can get them out of this mess that just keeps getting messier and messier by the minute. He’s itching for a quiet moment, just a few hours to sit down and chart out a course of action, but as Diggle swerves dangerously out of the freeway and into a smaller back road, he has a feeling he’s not going to get that moment any time soon. 

“This is so fucking stupid, you know that right?” Oliver growls angrily. “Why don’t we just meet with the FBI and try and sort things out? Why run? Why put all of us in this position in the first place?”

“Hey, I hate this as much as you do, trust me,” Diggle bites back. “But those guys back there came after us guns blazing, which tells me they’re not in a mood to sort anything out. And as long as they’re after Felicity and she’s in danger, I’m not taking any chances.” 

Oliver can appreciate that. He doesn’t like it, but he understands not wanting to put Felicity in the line of fire and that appeases him. 

“So where are we going now?” 

“To be decided,” Lyla mutters, shooting Diggle a look. “All our safe houses are burnt.” 

“We have no destination?!” Oliver thunders loudly. “Are you serious? You don’t know where we’re going _ and  _ we don’t have a plan?” 

“I’m working on it, okay?” Diggle grumbles, turning down yet another small alleyway. “We’ll find a motel or something where we can lay low for a while. Somewhere we can regroup and figure out what to do next.” 

“Um, I think I can help with that.” 

Felicity! 

Oliver snaps his head around, relief flooding through his entire body when he sees Felicity with her eyes open, blinking at him. He twists around and pulls her into a tight hug, burying his nose into her hair PDA be damned. 

“You’re awake,” he mumbles into her hair. He tightens his hold on her. “Thank God.” 

He hears Lyla and Diggle express their relief as well in the background but he doesn’t let her go. 

It feels like he can breathe again and so he does, pulling in a lungful of air. He doesn’t know what it is about her, but a wave of calm befalls him, and smiles into her hair. Everything else, the shitty situation they’re in, his frustration with both Lyla and Diggle and their lack of a plan, all of that fade into the background now that Felicity’s awake and lucid - and squirming in his arms.

Right. She just woke up, don’t suffocate her, fool. 

She’s blushing when he pulls away, but her eyes are bright and she offers him a watery smile. “I didn’t mean to scare you. I _ told  _ Digg I’m not great with heights,” she apologies sheepishly, then shakes her head and brings up her hand to show him her phone. 

“But can I make up for that with a message from my asshole father?” 

Oliver jerks forward, snatching the phone out of her hand, ignoring her affronted ‘Hey!’

The message is from a blocked number and contained nothing but a string of 1s and 0s. Oliver frowns. “What is -”

“Ugh.” Felicity reaches over to pull the phone out of her hands. “Rude, much. The message is in binary. I’ve run it through a decoder app and it’s a set of coordinates. A date - tomorrow, time, 5pm and ... _ Shining Star.”  _

“Shining Star?” Diggle chimes in from the front. 

“What he used to call me when I was younger. That’s how I know it’s him,” Felicity mutters darkly. “The coordinates are for a town called... Ravenspur? It’s not far,” she continues, tapping away on her phone. She stretches her arm out, snaking it between the side of the car and Diggle’s headrest to show him. “It’s only half a day’s drive from here. See?” 

Alarm bells go off in his head. Oh no.  _ Nope.  _ Oliver knows where this is going. He knows exactly what’s crossing her mind right now. 

“Felicity, no.” 

Felicity cocks her head at him. “Excuse me?” she asks dangerously. 

What? Is she serious? “You’re not going to meet him. It could be a trap!” 

“Oliver’s right,” Diggle cautions. “You don’t know what this is, Felicity. You don’t know that it’s your father.”   
  


“It’s him, okay!” Felicity snaps. “I  _ know _ it. No one else has the ability to, one, get my phone number, and two, bypass all my security protocols to mask his number. Listen, Oliver just said you guys don’t have a plan. So what’s the harm in hearing me out?” 

Lyla’s reflection in the mirror pinches her nose between her fingers, and then she rolls her eyes at him. He scowls back at her. How was he supposed to know Felicity was awake when he said that? 

“The FBI wants him. ARGUS wants him. So... why can’t we, as in the four of us, go get him on our own? We have the upper hand here, we have  _ me!  _ He’s already reached out, that’s half our work done. Then we deliver him to ARGUS, or the FBI - I don’t particularly care who, or what happens to him - and then we’ll get these targets off our backs. Everybody wins!” 

Felicity widens her eyes at him expectantly, and as much as Oliver hates to admit it, it’s... not a bad plan. It’s risky, with a lot of movable parts, but definitely better than having _ no  _ plan. 

“It’s... not terrible,” he concedes. “Needs work, but it’s smart. A good place to start.” 

“Well, I am a genius,” Felicity sing-songs smugly. 

“You want to hand your father off to the feds?” Diggle asks. “Just like that?” 

“If he’s the cyber-criminal I know he is, then he deserves to be locked up, don’t you think?” she argues. “He’s a criminal Digg. And we may not be in the FBI’s good books right now, but keeping criminals off the street is still kinda our job isn’t it?” 

Oliver takes in the cold set of her face, her flippant demeanor, and he realises that she must have really been hurt by her father leaving. Immediately his hatred for the man multiplies tenfold and yeah, he totally would be fine giving the guy up to the feds and letting him rot in prison. 

How could any decent person in good conscience leave someone like _ Felicity?  _

“So?” Felicity demands when no one says anything. “What do you think?” She directs the question to the two senior agents, pushing past him to get in between the front seats. “Find my dad, turn him in, live happily ever after?” 

Diggle lets out a grunt from the driver’s seat. 

“Excellent!” Felicity exclaims. “Now we have a plan. What would you guys do without me, honestly?”

Probably not be in this mess, Oliver nearly blurts out. But he holds his tongue, grabs her by her shoulders and pulls her back to her side of the back seat so that she’s no longer accident prone.

She rolls her eyes, but is quite clearly pleased with herself, if the smug grin on her face is anything to go by. Oliver on the other hand, is less convinced, years of well-honed instincts telling him that they aren’t out of hot water just yet. 

It also doesn’t help that when he meets Diggle’s eyes in the rearview mirror, the older man is wearing the same solemn, uncertain expression on his face. Oliver frowns and exchanges a look of understanding with Diggle. 

Plan or no plan, one thing is certain. He isn’t going to let anything happen to Felicity.

* * *

**February 2014, Outskirts of Ravenspur, Random Motel**

“You’re telling me this is the best Anatoly could do?” Felicity’s voice drips with disdain as it floats out to him from inside the motel room. 

Oliver sighs, dropping his bag at his feet. He’s waiting outside the room, loitering, so that the rest of them can get inside before he does. He wants to make sure they haven’t been followed; his paranoia isn’t something he can just brush aside based on Diggle’s assurance that they haven’t alone. 

“Would you prefer to reach out to _ your _ contacts and alert the FBI to our whereabouts instead?” 

“Well, no,” Felicity moans. Oliver thinks he hears her flinging open cupboard doors and pulling drawers out. “But come in here, look at this -” 

“Oh, just deal with it,” Diggle says, elbowing his way past him and into the motel room, which, in _ his _ opinion isn’t the worst Anatoly could have done for them on such short notice. “You should be grateful it has more than one bedroom, Smoak.” 

“What’d I say?” Felicity whines as she follows Diggle in. Her voice fades away as she walks further into the room. “You only call me Smoak when you’re upset.” 

Oliver doesn’t get to hear Diggle’s response because Lyla comes marching by next, talking to someone on her phone. It’s a terse conversation and her expression is grim, which doesn’t bode well for them. 

It’s no secret that Lyla despises their Director. In fact, the two have butted heads so often that sometimes he thinks it’s safer being in the Russian mafia than in the same room as the two of them. 

“What do you mean, eliminate -  _ Jesus, Waller  _ \- this isn’t a game. Do we, or do we not have access - no? Okay? Fine! Go to hell!” Lyla practically yells out the last word, and then in an act that catches Oliver by complete surprise, flings her phone out and away, sending it flying into the dark of night. 

He watches in awe as it sails through the air, finally crashing and smashing in heap on the asphalt far, far away from them. 

“Was that smart?” Oliver asks, slightly amused. “Antagonising Waller?”

Lyla growls under her breath, then pins him down with a death-inducing glare. “We’re already being hunted by one federal agency, what’s another one?” 

And then she too disappears into the room. Oliver’s jaw falls open and he blinks at the empty spot where Lyla was standing. 

“What - what do you mean?” he calls out in a panic. He digs his own phone out of his pocket, lets it drop to the ground before crushing it under his foot. Oh, Felicity would be so mad. 

“Fuck, Lyla, wait.” 

He grabs his bag, gives their surroundings one last careful look, and walks in, slamming the door behind him.

* * *

It’s not so bad. 

It’s not so bad. 

It’s not so bad -  _ eep!  _ WAS THAT A RAT?!

Felicity spins on the balls of her feet and marches out of the small bathroom. “Nope, nope. Nope, nope nope.” 

“Felicity, it’s for one night.” 

“Digg! There is a rat! In! The! Bathroom! I don’t know about you, but I don’t need some beady-eyed rodent perving on me while I’m having a shower, thank you very much. I already knocked myself out climbing down the side of a building! I don’t need to, I don’t know, slip and fall in the shower and then hurt myself again, and you guys have to come in and get me and I’ll be all naked and slippery and that’s so emba- what? What’s wrong with you?”

She turns her attention to Oliver, who’s just walked in, slamming the door behind him without a care in the world about potentially waking up every one else in the motel. He’s red-faced, and a muscle in his very chiseled jaw is twitching like he’s clenching his teeth really, really hard. 

“Who’s... naked?” 

Really? He’s getting tongue tied about  _ that? _ He’s already seen her naked, for God’s sake. 

“Okay!” Diggle announces loudly. His angry scowl speaks volumes and Felicity’s shuts her mouth. She’s only seen him this worked up once before, and that was when she accidentally kissed Oliver that one time at Kord Industries. Not fun. 

Well, the kissing was fun. The fallout wasn’t. 

“We’re not on a holiday, Felicity. Suck it up. Oliver, get your tongue back in your mouth. We’re fugitives, all of us, which means -”

“Technically,” Felicity raises her hand, and instantly feels stupid because what is she? In school? She drops her hand. “Oliver and Lyla aren’t fugitives. ARGUS -”

“Actually, about that...” Lyla cuts in, wincing. “I may have pissed off Director Waller, so I’d suggest we work on the assumption that we’re _ all  _ wanted for some form of treason or another.”

If looks could kill, Diggle would also be wanted for murder  _ on top  _ of treason. 

“You  _ what?!”  _

Lyla casts a wary glance at Felicity. “A word, Johnny?” she asks, before pulling Diggle into the smaller adjoining room that Felicity assumes is supposed to be a study in an attempt for some privacy, which, okay, rude much? She’s unable to make out Lyla’s frantic, hushed whispers and so she turns to Oliver instead. 

“Soooo... you guys are in trouble too?” 

Because that’s not good. Being on the shitlist of two federal agencies? On top having been tracked down by one of the most dangerous, yet elusive cyber-criminals in the world, who also happens to be her father? 

The weight of all of that is  _ suffocating.  _

It feels like her throat is closing up, the air is slowly being sucked out of her lungs, and she has to take several long, deep breaths to remind herself that she’s fine, she’s okay, and that she’s  _ safe.  _ For now. 

“I’ve always been on thin ice with ARGUS. It’s why they sent me on the long con to infiltrate the Odessa. Keeping in on a tight leash, yet out of their way,” Oliver murmurs thoughtfully. “They probably have something over Lyla the same way they do with me. I had a feeling she didn’t always agree with ARGUS or their methods, but I never really thought she’d straight up tell Waller to shove it.” 

And of course, Oliver sounds nonplussed about it all. 

Doesn’t he think they’re in as much trouble as she does? _ Why  _ doesn’t he? Isn’t he as confused as she is? Why isn’t he wondering what the Calculator wants from her or why  _ she  _ has to be the one to lure him out when her existence wasn’t enough to make him stay all those years ago? 

Probably because he’s a damn good agent who knows how to compartmentalise his feelings and not let them get in the way of the job. 

Because he’s _ better  _ than her, and because he probably doesn't have a long, painful history of daddy issues that have suddenly reared its ugly head in the last twelve hours or so. 

Her nails are clawing the insides of her clenched fists by now, and the sting of the pain brings her back to the present, halting her dangerous descent into a spiral of bitter resentment towards her father. 

She turns her attention back onto Oliver when he shakes his head, like he’s dragging himself out of some memory he’s swimming in and bestows a gentle smile on her. 

“How are you feeling anyway? Are you in any pain from before? Do you want anything?”

“I’m _ fine,”  _ she answers tersely.  _ Of course  _ he’s picked up on her distress. Always so sharp-eyed and in tune with his surroundings, unlike her, who hadn’t even been able to pick up that her entire employment with the FBI had been a sham. 

She swallows the hit to her pride and puts on a brave face. She can be just as unaffected. She’s just as good as an agent as he is. 

“What I  _ want  _ is to know what Digg and Lyla are talking about, and I  _ want  _ to get the Calculator, and then I  _ want _ to go home and sleep for the next three months.” 

“Okay, I get that,” Oliver says slowly, and Felicity narrows her eyes because she knows - she just  _ knows  _ \- what’s coming next, just from the tone of his voice. Here it is. The sympathy and pity for poor Felicity Smoak who had her own history used against her, without her suspecting a single thing. 

He stretches his arm out and takes her hand in his. He’s a touchy person, Felicity's starting to realise. For someone who acted like he’d been electrocuted the first time she touched him back at the Russian restaurant, he sure isn’t holding back now. 

Come to think about it, he hasn’t really let her out of his sight - or out of touching distance - since the whole jumping off the roof fiasco, and that’s... okay, it’s sweet, but also irrationally grates on her nerves.

“But have you really thought about what you’re about to do? Properly? If he’s as dangerous as you say he is, if he’s capable of all these -”

“He is my  _ father _ , Oliver, not some strange man I don’t know.  _ I know what I’m doing _ .” Felicity snaps.

And she’s not a  _ child. _

She yanks her hand out of his grasp and scowls at him because he’s treating her like some fragile doll. She thought he was on her side when he agreed to her plan, that he trusted her, but it seems like he’s trying to change her mind now, and for some reason, it really stings that he isn’t completely behind her on this. 

“Right, but hear me out, Felicity.” 

God, what will it take for him to stop talking right about now? “Is it possible that maybe the fact that he  _ is _ your father is clouding your judgment? I’m only asking because I want to make sure that you’re safe.”

_ Oh no, he didn’t.  _

Her ire spills out like a waterfall over a steep cliff. The frustration that’s been slowly bubbling since this morning finally boils over, and she unleashes on him, letting her mouth take over. Enough is _ enough.  _

“Is it possible that maybe the fact that we had sex one time is clouding  _ your _ judgement?” she explodes. “Just because you’ve seen me naked, _ once,  _ doesn’t make you my keeper, Oliver!” 

Wave upon wave of pent up frustration crashes over her and there’s nothing she can do to stop the barrage of angry, heated words that come out of her mouth. 

Her voice echoes loudly in the sparse room. “In case you’ve forgotten, I am a fully qualified FBI agent!” she seethes. She pokes him in his stupidly hard chest. “I don’t need you, or Digg, or anyone else to  _ take care _ of me like I’m some helpless child who can’t possibly take care of themself!” 

“Hey! I’m not -”

“And! Let me remind you that _ you,  _ Mr. Badass Undercover Operative, didn’t suspect a single thing when I came to you as a hacker for hire. So excuse me if I don’t particularly care for your opinion of me and  _ my _ judgment,” she sneers at him. “You’re no better than I am!” 

“I totally fooled you  _ and  _ every single criminal organisation in Starling City, so I think I’m perfectly capable of taking a meeting with the coward who decided it was okay to  _ break  _ his daughter by leaving her without an ounce of regret in his entire body!” 

Oliver blinks at her, mouth slightly parted, stunned as tears start welling up in Felicity’s eyes.

“Felicity, I just-”

_ “No!”  _ she yells, furiously wiping away her tears with the back of her hand. Oliver’s wide eyed shock brings her immense satisfaction. “There’s no  _ I. _ There’s me, and my asshole of a dad, and my mission. So either shut up and deal with it, or get out of my way!” 

Felicity turns her back to him; she can’t let him see her tears, and she can’t stand to look at his caught-in-headlights expression anymore. 

Felicity storms off into the other room, desperate to put some space between them, only to find both Diggle and Lyla standing right at the doorway when she swings it open. 

Eavesdropping. 

She’s not even surprised. 

“You deal with him,” she tells Lyla hotly. 

And then she walks right into the bathroom and slams the door shut. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> T r o u b l e !!!! 
> 
> Twitter: @griever_11
> 
> (Thank you all for your feedback and comments! I know I sound like a broken record by now, but listen, the truth is the truth and I love you all for it!)


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is my favourite chapter out of this whole fic :)

**Unknown Location**

He’s back on the boat. 

He’s sinking, gasping for air. 

His hands are splayed out in front of him, fingernails feeling like they’re about to be ripped out from their beds as he scrambles to find purchase on the drifting piece of wood he’s clinging onto for dear life. 

His entire body seizes up, frozen from being submerged in the cold sea water. His heart feels like it’s about to give out, struggling for every short pull of air between his chattering teeth. His feet stop kicking, falling like lead as they finally drag him down, 

down, 

and further down into the murky, inky depths of the salty, death-riddled sea water. 

Except then there’s a gun in his hand and he’s pistol whipping a faceless soldier, grunting in satisfaction when the man crumples in a heap in front of him from the force of the impact. Oliver finds a slow, sinister smile stretch across his face, a single Russian curse falling from his lips as he’s wiping the blood off his gun before - 

He’s running. 

There’s an explosion roaring behind him, heat licking up his back. The island - Lian Yu, fucking Lian Yu, falls apart around him, tree branches crashing into the dirt, trees splintering apart from the raging fire. 

Apocalypse rising. 

His feet carry him on autopilot towards the edge of the beach, having committed the lay of the land to his memory out of pure survival instinct. It’s been years, but muscle memory doesn’t fade, not this kind, at least. His arms are bleeding, skin ripped, scratched from being whipped by the sharp, broken, foliage as he races towards the sea. 

The crystalline blue of the ocean emerges through the thicket eventually, but the relief is short lived. Slade - Slade Wilson stands by the edge of the water, a grin on his face, the hole in his eye gaping and bleeding. He’s holding something behind his back, some _one_ if the amount of struggling is anything to go by. 

“Choose!” he screams maniacally at Oliver as he skids to a stop in front of the man. And then his heart drops because Slade pulls his arms around and reveals his who his captive is. 

_Felicity._

Oliver’s heart stops. His blood freezes. She’s in her black top - the one she wore on the day they met, her platform boots, and look of fear and loathing in her face as she kicks at Slade wildly - but to no avail. 

“Choose!” Slade screams again. He holds a sword up, the steel edge glinting in the sunlight, reflecting the flames climbing up higher and higher behind him. He points it at him, the tip slicing through the air with evil intent. 

“You, or her!” 

Felicity twists in his grasp, her blonde hair fluttering in the wind, as she scratches the arm holding her against Slade’s body. Oliver’s rooted to the spot. Fear and panic claw at him, digging right into his soul, because he can’t - 

He can’t lose her. He just - he just _found_ her. 

This isn’t how it’s supposed to go. Felicity shouldn’t be here. Not on this island of horrors and nightmares and years of pain. He falls to his knees, but he can’t move anything else, can’t help but stare at the two figures in front of him. The ugly twist of Slade’s smirk burns into the back of his eyelids. Felicity, ever so brave, wrestles against his hold on her but she’s small and Slade’s a brute and Oliver’s throat closes up.

“Your life or hers!” Slade bellows. 

“Choose!” 

He raises the sword to Felicity’s neck, pricking her skin with the long edge of the sharp steel. Oliver blanches. His entire world slows down. He’s crippled by blinding panic and he’s sinking. The sand is shifting beneath his knees and he can’t get up even if wanted to. The sand starts swallowing him up, slowly, eating at him the way the fear of losing Felicity is eating into his soul. 

Felicity cries out in pain as Slade cackles loudly, pressing the blade deeper into her skin. It echoes in his head, over, and over, manic and wholly unhinged. 

“Her, I choose her!” Oliver screams, fists thumping uselessly against the sand. His body keeps sinking. “Take me, leave her alone! Felicity, Felicity, run! Please!”

“WRONG CHOICE!” 

And then Slade’s sword swings upwards in a wide arc, Felicity tumbles to the ground as Slade lets her go and he brings the sword down, down - right against the long line of her neck, his grin stretching across his face as he laughs in glee. 

His body breaks, anguish wracking through him as he screams one last time. _“_ _Felicity!”_

“Oh, crap, I didn’t mean to -” 

Oliver startles awake, his whole body going rigid as flies off the bed, throwing the covers off and backs up into the corner of the room. The darkness is jarring - wasn’t he just on that godforsaken island? Wasn’t Slade - didn’t Felicity - 

_Felicity._

His eyes adjust quickly, and he blinks the dread and weariness away. It feels like his heart is ricocheting around his chest, pounding erratically. He’s soaked in sweat, his shirt sticking to his back, and he’s aching deeply from the loss of - Oh. But there she is. 

Standing on the other side of the bed, staring at him like she’s just seen a ghost. She’s not dead, not bleeding, and definitely not on that island with him, waiting for certain death. She’s changed into her pajamas since the last time he saw her, an oversized shirt and a pair of tight black leggings. 

One hand is clutching the material of her shirt over her chest, the other hanging limply by her side. 

“Felicity?” he croaks in disbelief, running a hand through his hair as his heart starts calming down. Nightmare. It was a nightmare. Another fucking nightmare. This is why he _hates_ sleeping. 

“Felicity, you’re okay.” This time her name comes out in a whisper of relief and the tightness in his chest eases. With the bed still in between them, he feels a lot safer to be around her, less likely to lash out like he’s prone to do in his middle of the night episodes. 

“Yeah,” she says haltingly. “I’m okay.” 

Her eyes move rapidly to and fro between him and the bed. Her tongue darts out to wet her lips nervously. Even through the darkness he can see that she’s a little freaked out and he screws his eyes shut, his entire being filled with regret because she isn’t supposed to ever see him like this. 

This _broken._

“I just wanted to check on you,” she continues after a beat. “You were... um, you were talking in your sleep and I got worried. You said my name a few times. I was in the other room with Digg and Lyla and it... you didn’t sound good. Are _you_ okay?” 

Right, right.

It all comes back to him now. Felicity had stormed off after their fight, locking herself in the bathroom without so much as an explanation, not giving him a chance to try and figure out what exactly had set her off. 

Deciding to give her some space to cool off, he, Diggle and Lyla had taken the time to come up with a plan B in case something went wrong at the meeting the next day. Nothing overly complicated, just some measures they could take in the event the Calculator decided to double cross Felicity. 

When they were satisfied with what they had, Digg and Lyla had sent him off to get some sleep while they took the first shift at keeping watch that night. Felicity, at that point still hadn’t come out from her self-imposed exile, and for lack of a better thing to do, he’d taken them up on the offer. 

And now he’s here, trembling from the very visceral reaction he had from the fucking nightmare of Felicity’s throat being sliced open from a man he thought he’d left in his past. The wall against his back is a small comfort, solid and cold, anchoring him to the present. 

Thankfully, the remnants of the nightmare is slowly fading away, but he doesn’t think he’ll forget nightmare-Felicity’s blood-curling scream any time soon. 

“I’m okay, really,” Oliver tells her quietly, still not quite trusting himself not to break down in front of her. _Fuck._ He’s never falling asleep ever again in his entire life. “I’m sorry I worried you.”

“You didn’t,” Felicity says quickly, then shakes her head once and amends. “Okay, maybe you did, a little. But I wasn’t worried, worried. Just a little concerned. You were shouting pretty loudly when I came in, but you were all-” She makes a wild movement with both her hands, a comical reenactment of what must have been him thrashing about in bed. “- so I tried to wake you up, and then... well, here we are.” 

Oliver presses his lips together, torn between the curling warmth of her admitting she was concerned, and the biting regret of her having to see him like that. So weak; chained to and haunted by his past like a phantom he can never fully exorcise out of his soul. 

“I’m okay now though,” he tries to reassure her. He makes sure to stay pressed up against the wall, and he’s glad that the bed is between them because it means she’s safe. Safe from him and his fucked up fragile state and any potential for him to lash out at her. “Really. I promise.”

The slight twist of Felicity’s lips tells him she’s not convinced. Her fingers curl and uncurl by her sides, then she pulls her bottom lip between her teeth. She’s thinking hard about something, the tell-tall wrinkle on her forehead giving her away. 

Oliver licks his lips, the prolonged silence not doing anything good for his nerves. “So, uh. What do you need?”

Felicity lets out a small huff of laughter, nodding quickly.

“I came in here because I wanted to apologise, actually. Which seems... well, hardly enough now because I completely lost it at you during my tiny... gargantuan meltdown earlier, and I didn’t even think that you would be going through some pretty shitty things on your own and then I walked out on you and you didn’t deserve that.”

She wrings her hands together, not moving from her spot just inside of the doorway. “So. I’m sorry.” 

Oliver pushes off the wall, scrambling over the bed, his heart racing under his chest. Suddenly the need to be close to her overrides his fear of hurting her, and when he climbs over the edge of the bed, he pulls her into his arms without a shred of hesitation. 

Her surprised, ‘Oh!’ makes him chuckle, and he folds her into his embrace, tucking her slight frame into his much larger one. She’s alive. Alive, and warm, and right here with him. Slade can’t touch her. Ever. 

“I’m sorry I yelled at you,” she repeats, her voice muffled against his chest. “Sorry I said you had poor judgment. I’m -” 

“Hey, hey, I get it,” he soothes. He rubs a hand over her back in wide circles. 

Has it really only been one night since he last held her this close? It feels like it’s been an age. In a way, it has been. From their narrow escape from the FBI, to making contact with the Calculator, right up to this very moment, it definitely feels like way too many things have happened since he woke up sated and loose-limbed, beaming in wonderment at her still-sleeping form curled up next to him. 

“You were right though,” Felicity mumbles after a while. She extricates herself from his embrace, blinking shyly at him. “About _my_ judgment being clouded because we’re dealing with my father.” 

She tugs on his hand, leading him towards the bed so that they both settle down by the edge of the lumpy mattress. She pulls her feet up, crossing her legs. He sits down obediently by her side. 

“My father, he’s a... sore spot for me, in case that hasn’t been made abundantly clear. He left us when I was a kid, I told you that, right?”

“When you were seven,” Oliver recalls, reaching out to squeeze her knee in solidarity. 

‘Yeah. And for years after that, even though I knew it was stupid and pointless, I kept trying to figure out why. Mom won’t talk about him, and I never could remember if they fought a lot - if they did, they kept it from me. It’s always been the one mystery I’ve never been able to solve, the one thing I’ve never been able to get closure from.” 

Felicity covers his hand with hers, interlacing their fingers together. “So after a while, the only reasonable explanation was that he just didn’t love us anymore. That we weren’t enough for him. He was my _hero,_ Oliver, my dad, so smart and clever, who gave me the gift of my first love for computers, but _I_ wasn’t enough to make him stay.” 

She talks with a strange, quiet detachment, like she’s telling a bedtime story instead of spilling her heart out to him. “I learned to live with it though. Kept all that resentment locked away and sometimes I can even forget that he abandoned us and pretend that I don’t care that he did - the FBI psychologists said it’s a mild form of emotional disassociation. Not the healthiest way of dealing with things, but it worked. Has worked, for so long too.” 

“Until this stupid thing with the USB drive and his code, and I think a part of me just _snapped._ It’s been a hard couple of days and you were the easiest, and closest target so I took it out on you. It was never about you, Oliver. It’s just... me and my issues that I never really dealt with properly. I’m really sorry. I don’t think you’re a terrible agent, or that you’re trying to _keep_ me. I think you’re pretty great, actually. And sweet.” 

His heart breaks for her. 

Her trust and abandonment issues make so much more sense now. The tongue-lashing she inflicted on him seems insignificant after what she’s just revealed. She feels so small next to him, staring at a spot on the ground as her hand holds on to his tightly. He can feel her chest heaving, glancing against his own body with every sharp intake of her breath. 

This is hard for her. 

“Hey, I think you’re pretty great too,” Oliver tells her just as quietly, not wanting to burst the quiet bubble she’s created around them. He faces his palm upwards so that he can grasp onto her hand. He brushes a kiss over her temple, lips lingering over skin indulgently. 

The walls he’s built around himself over the years of crumbles away. The ‘Oliver Queen, ARGUS Agent’ mask that he’s worn like armor melts into oblivion right then, while he holds onto Felicity’s hand as she continues to sift through her own thoughts in silence. 

The overwhelming need to hold her intensifies, like his entire being is clamoring to protect her from every single bad thing, and bad person in the world. He’s never felt like this for anyone else before, but instead of allowing himself to question it, or ignore it like he’s been trying to do since the day he met her, this time, Oliver wholeheartedly embraces the feeling. 

He finally accepts the fact that Felicity Smoak has him in a mortal lock. 

It feels like a curtain’s been lifted over his eyes when it hits him. When he realises that this is what being in love must feel like. 

He swallows the urge to profess this love to her right then. He’s not stupid, she’s just unloaded a lot of baggage onto him, and he suspects that she’s still feeling a little raw and uncomfortable about it. Plus - him being absolutely besotted by her doesn’t necessarily mean that _she_ feels the same way about him. 

And oh - that last thought doesn’t sit well with him _at all._ He clears his throat, banishing it to the dark corners of his mind. “Well, apology accepted, by the way. That was ah, a really good one, all things considered.” 

Felicity tears her eyes from the ground and turns to face him. A small smile graces her features. “Had some time to prepare it after all. You know, running off and locking myself away like that.” 

She cracks a wide yawn all of a sudden, and he flicks his gaze over to the small digital alarm clock on the side table. Four in the morning. No wonder. 

“Wanna sleep?” he offers, even as he moves further onto the bed before hearing her answer, pulling on their still-joined hands. She lets him, following him onto the bed without protesting, slowly unfolding her feet so she ends up half lying, half sitting against the headboard once he’s done moving them around. 

He’d been slightly nervous about their sleeping arrangements before, God forbid they make him share the room with Diggle, but it seems to go unspoken that they’re sharing the bed tonight which is obviously a far more pleasing alternative. 

“What are Diggle and Lyla doing right now?” he asks as he props himself up on his elbow, gazing adoringly at Felicity, drinking in the drowsy, half-smile that’s playing on the corners of her lips. 

“They’re still out there keeping an eye on things, happy to stay on watch, apparently,” Felicity answers. ‘Which is probably code for sitting around stubbornly not staring at each other, and not talking about the fact that they were both married once, and clearly still have feelings for each other.” 

Oliver lets out a chuckle at her off-tangent muttering, a lightness filling the cavern in his soul that had been gauged open by his poorly-timed nightmare. He feels buoyed by her confession, a little more confident about where he stands with her, and suddenly all he wants to do is just... watch her while she gets some very well deserved rest.

“So you have time to get some sleep,” he says, patting the space next to him to urge her to come closer and scoot downwards so that she joins him lying fully on the bed. She does. “You sound exhausted.” 

“Kinda am.” Felicity yawns again. 

She flops over onto her stomach, folding her hands under her pillow and turns sideways to face him. He feels one of her legs stretch out next to his, and then a toe pokes him in his ankle. She looks into his eyes with silent understanding. “You gonna try to sleep again?”

“Ah, no, I don’t think so,” he answers truthfully. Vestiges of his nightmare still lingers in the back of his mind, and he has no interest in relieving any of that again this soon. “But I’m okay staying right here.” 

“‘Kay,” Felicity murmurs, her eyelids already drooping. Her lashes flutter as she blinks slowly. “Can I kiss you goodnight?” 

God - “ _Yes,_ Felicity,” Oliver rumbles, instantly pulling her close. 

Their lips meet sweetly. She sucks on his bottom lip, far more insistent than she should be for a goodnight kiss, but Oliver doesn’t care. He places a hand over her cheek, guiding her face, deepening the kiss. They both inch closer, legs slowly tangling together, mimicking the languid paths their tongues are taking. It’s sweet and sinful at the same time, a perfect representation of Felicity - and he’d really love to capitalise on this right now, if not for the fact he knows Felicity hasn’t slept in many, many hours. 

Oliver pulls back eventually, painfully aware of his growing hardness, but far more concerned for Felicity’s need for sleep.

“Go to sleep,” he urges, squeezing her waist once and then pulling her into him. He tucks her under his chin, wrapping his body around hers, and he feels Felicity grin into his shirt. 

“Leader of the Russian mafia, aggressive cuddler,” she teases sleepily. “Gonna have to remember that.” 

“Yeah, not gonna let you forget any time soon,” he lobbies back, brushing one last kiss to the top of her head before settling in for the rest of the night.

* * *

Felicity is a goddess. 

A feisty, sexy, minx of a goddess who is going to send him into the deepest, darkest pits of hell because the things she’s doing to him is positively _unholy._

“Do all ARGUS agents have abs like yours?” 

Oliver gasps, looking up at Felicity, mildly offended as she continues to move over him slowly. She lifts her gloriously naked body off him, just an inch, and then drives back down over his straining cock as she sends him a lascivious smirk. 

“Why -” Oliver groans over another slick roll of her hips. He has both his hands clutched around the outside of both her creamy, smooth thighs and he sinks his nails into her flesh. “Why are you thinking about other ARGUS agents right now?” he growls. 

“Right. So- _Sorry_.” 

Felicity drops a hand onto his chest, leaning forward as Oliver bucks under her as punishment. The movement clearly makes him hit her in just the right spot because her eyes roll backwards and her mouth drops open as she moans loudly, satisfaction dripping from her voice. 

Good. Yeah. That’ll teach her to think about other ARGUS agents. 

Oliver does it again, driving into her, placing his feet flat on the bed and arching up. Felicity makes a low, rumbly noise in the back of her throat and Oliver preens in delight. Yes. _Yes._ She bows backwards, sinking down, clamping her thighs tightly around his waist. 

Rolling waves of carnal lust build up within him, zipping through his blood, and Oliver has to shut his eyes to regain some form of control over himself. 

Felicity however, doesn’t seem to care about him losing control, because the next thing he knows, she falls forward, planting both hands on his shoulders and she’s kissing him, stealing the air from between his lips, pressing her breasts against his chest deliciously. 

Oliver strokes his hands upwards, dragging his palms over her back and resting them against her shoulder blades. He moves with her, smooth and easy, letting her ride him however she likes, holding her close. Her breath skitters over his skin, little puffs of pleasure, panting in time with his insistent thrusting. 

“Oh, God, yeah,” she hisses after one particularly sinful roll of their hips. Her pupils are blown, dark, glimmering with impatience and unbridled lust. She grinds down again, pressing their hips flushed together. “Come on, Oliver!” 

The deep rasp of her voice sends a new wave of uncontrollable want cresting through his body and Oliver finally, finally relents. 

He uses his well-earned abdominal muscles to haul himself up, looping an arm around Felicity’s waist as he flips them over. He lands in a heap over her, still intimately joined, and wipes the mildly affronted look on her face with a bruising kiss. He swirls his tongue into her mouth, catching her breathless sigh, and he lets pure instinct take over. 

He thrusts into her with near animalistic vigor, luxuriating in the way she clenches around him, tight and hot, soul-trapping. Felicity keens with anticipation, her hands clawing at his back, his sides, her legs crossing around his waist as she lets him take her to the skies. 

He pounds right into her, and then, on a low, continuous moan, she stiffens, her mouth falls open in a wordless scream and then arches right up into him, squeezing his cock so tightly Oliver swears he goes blind for a moment. 

It doesn’t take much more to send him careening off the edge. Having Felicity writhing under him, chest heaving with exertion, nipples pebbled, sweat slicked and post-orgasm happy, sets off Oliver’s own chain of pleasure and when he comes, he comes _hard._

“Jesus,” he gasps as he falls forward, twisting at the last second so he doesn’t crush Felicity beneath him. 

He gathers her into his arms, irrationally pleased that she doesn’t put up much of a fight when he manhandles her into his embrace. She’s loose and pliable, humming with satisfaction when she snuggles into him. Her nose glances off the edge of his jawline and he rubs his scruff over her cheek playfully.

“That was... wow,” Oliver mumbles into her hair. He runs his hands down her body slowly, grinning when she shivers under his touch.

“Got that right. What a great wake up call,” she murmurs. One of her legs slide up his thigh. She taps a finger against his chest as she purses her lips. “Gotta get up though. Time to go be badass super secret agents or whatever.” 

“Or whatever,” Oliver grimaces, wishing that they didn’t have to go face the real world so soon.

Unfortunately, Felicity’s already untangling herself from him, stretching slowly, and climbing over him to get off the bed. She hops over their discarded clothes unabashedly, then turns around to frown at him. 

“Are you getting up or what?” She has her hands on her hips. Her accompanying glare loses most of its effect since she’s _gloriously naked,_ but Oliver groans and gets up nonetheless. 

He doesn’t bother putting his shirt on, just his boxers, gathering the rest of it in his arms while he waits for Felicity to get decent. 

“Shower?” he asks when she looks like she’s ready. “I can make some coffee while you do that? That bathroom outside does not look like it can’t fit both of us in it.”

Felicity laughs, pulling her unruly hair into a ponytail. She reaches out for the doorknob that leads to the other main room, and thus, the bathroom, before turning back to him. “Trust me, it can’t. It barely fit me and my good friend the rat while I locked myself in there last night.” 

He grins at her as he follows her out. “Well, okay then. You shower and I’ll _oh -”_

He nearly runs into Felicity’s back, his chest colliding with the back of her head while his hand comes around her waist to steady himself. 

They’re face to face with Diggle and Lyla. Staring at them, both already dressed for the day, armed, and not amused in the slightest. 

They’re here too. 

He... _forgot._ How could he have forgotten that they weren’t alone? He and Felicity just - 

“Heeey, guys,” Felicity finally speaks. Oliver can see the tips of her ears going red, and he can only guess at how much she’s blushing right now. “Good... morning?” 

Diggle grunts once, sends a very dangerous, murderous look their way before stomping off, flinging the front door open and disappearing outside. Okay, he’s angry. Cool. Oliver sighs. He’s going to be _great_ company on their way to Ravenspur later. 

“What’s up with him?” Felicity asks Lyla, clueless. “Why’d he leave?”

She half-turns back to Oliver, and yeah, she’s blushing hard and it’s so adorable that he momentarily forgets that they literally just did the walk of shame in front of both their Senior Agents, until Lyla lets out a huff of laughter. 

“Well, if you must know,” Lyla says, brows arched. She tilts her head towards the room they just came out of, then smirks, shaking her head. “You guys were very loud.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The response to the last couple of chapters have been absolutely amazing, thank you! Like I said earlier, this is my favourite chapter out of the entire fic, and I hope, hope, hope that you enjoy it as much as I enjoyed writing it. 
> 
> Love you lots :) 
> 
> Twitter: @griever_11


	16. Chapter 16

**February 2014, Industrial District, Ravenspur**

The drive to the coordinates the Calculator sent them wasn't a long one, forty five minutes to the designated meeting coordinates, but the simmering combination of nerves (her own), wariness (Lyla), smug cockiness (Oliver), and not so subtle disapproval (Diggle), made it feel like _hours._ They get there eventually though, and they're now parked just outside a block of factories and warehouses, waiting for their next set of instructions. 

“It’s going to be okay, we’re right here with you,” Oliver tells her, picking up on her last minute jitters. “Me, Lyla and Digg.” 

“You don't get to call me Digg. It’s still _Diggle_ to you,” her partner and mentor grumbles from the front. Lyla, riding shotgun, reaches over to smack him on the shoulder lightly. 

“Diggle, then,” Oliver corrects himself, shrugging. “In any case, we’ve got your back.”

He grasps her hand reassuringly, speaking to her in a low, comforting tone. If she had to guess, their night a the motel had somehow flipped a switch for him. As if being there for him after his nightmare and sharing her own dark, haunting, secrets finally allowed him to let go of his own and he's... _different_ this morning. More open. Lighter. 

Like he's in lov-

Nope. That's _scary._ Don't go down that path. It's completely presumptuous. Just because _she's_ harbouring very, very real feelings for him doesn't mean that he feels the same way about her. 

But then - he does things like brush strands of hair away from her face, squeeze her hands like letting go will mean the end of him and she wants to believe that maybe her very real feelings _are_ being reciprocated. He smiles at her, then leans over to kiss her forehead, like he's a freakin' _mind reader_ and he knows what she's currently thinking about.

Only to pull back like he’s been burnt when Diggle clears his throat loudly from the driver’s seat. 

Felicity blushes.

Right. PDA. Huge no-no at the moment, because both Digg and Lyla had been right there when she and Oliver were... in the throes of passion, for lack of a better term and while Lyla had told them so with a knowing smirk on her face, Digg... well. Digg hadn’t taken it as well as she, had.

Oliver apparently finds Digg’s discomfort amusing, waggling his eyebrows at her. His hand creeps over her thigh playfully, seemingly unperturbed by their impending clash with a dangerous, world-renowned cyber criminal who also happens to share her DNA. 

“Stop it,” she hisses, plucking his hand off her thigh, not wanting to antagonise Digg any further. She elbows him too, for sheer measure in case the message doesn’t make it through his abnormally thick skull. Oliver wrinkles his nose at her, sticks his tongue out and leans in, like he’s about to lick her nose, and -

“Hey! You two!” Digg barks suddenly, his voice bouncing off the walls. Felicity looks up into the rear view mirror, catching the venomous look Diggle is sending their way through the reflection. “Enough of that!” 

And then Digg’s barreling out of the driver’s seat, storming towards the back door on Oliver’s side and he flings it open. Felicity gapes at him past Oliver’s head. “Digg!” she exclaims, craning her neck. “What -” 

“OUT!” Digg demands, pointing a menacing finger at Oliver. “Now! We’re swapping. Get. Going.”

Oliver shoots her a startled look, but acquiesces without protest. He climbs out with an apologetic pout on his lips. Digg frowns at him the whole way, and only gets inside when he’s sure Oliver’s settled into the driver’s seat. 

“Um...” Felicity licks her lips with uncertainty. She blinks at Digg. “So... is this about me and Oliver?”

Digg grunts, looking straight ahead. So yes. It’s clearly about that. 

“Do you... Should we talk about it?” Felicity tries again. She clears her throat and pushes her glasses up her nose. “About what you may or may not have heard?”

“Felicity.” Diggle’s voice is strained. “I’d rather we not.” 

“Okay, but you’re being very growly right now, and it’s not a conducive environment for -” 

“Do you think it was a conducive environment for me and Lyla when we had to hear how _hard_ you wanted it last night?” 

Oh. Heat climbs up to the very tips of her ears. She hears a stifle of laughter and someone choking from the front and decides that maybe Digg _is_ right, and that they really shouldn’t be talking about... last night. 

“Not talking about it. Totally seeing the merits of that. Yup,” Felicity decides, popping the ‘p’ as she scrunches up her nose. 

Lyla, bless her soul, half-turns from the front to give her a sympathetic smile, which Felicity returns gratefully. At least _she_ doesn’t seem to be completely traumatised. 

A brief lull of silence falls between the four of them and Felicity takes the time to re-calibrate and refocus. If she really is about to meet her father _\- that_ notion is still quite unsettling - and she has to somehow manage the situation into one that ends with him being _caught,_ she needs to have her wits about her. Completely switched on, without any Oliver-related emotions distracting her. 

“You’re sure we’re at the right place?” Digg asks after a moment. The stern hostility is gone from his voice, and Felicity takes it as an olive branch. 

“Yeah. We’re here,” she confirms. They haven’t received anything else from her father, but she’s confident that he won’t renege on their meeting. “We’re early though. He might not be here yet, or he doesn’t know ...”

Her phone chimes and her heart rate spikes. 

“Spoke to soon. I guess he knows we’re here,” she murmurs, looking at the message that’s just arrived. “Building 102,” she reads. “Come alone.” 

Three voices speak in unison. “No way.” 

“But -”

“No, Felicity,” Oliver states firmly, head turned around. His expression is stony with determination. “No chance in hell.” 

She plays devil’s advocate. “What if all he wants to do is talk?” 

It’s Diggle who insists this time. “Then he talks to all of us.” 

“They’re right,” Lyla says. “There are too many variables about this meeting that we cannot risk sending you in alone.” She holds up her hand when Felicity starts to protest. “Even with your super fancy comms system and your frequency jammer.” 

It’s clear she’s not going to win this argument, so Felicity just sighs and nods. She shoots off a response to the restricted number and sucks in a deep breath. 

“Well. What are we waiting for?” She reaches around to pull her hair into a ponytail. “Let's go meet my dad.”

* * *

**February 2014, Building 102, Ravenspur**

They enter the building with extreme caution, Felicity leading the pack with the rest of them following closely behind her. Oliver, personally, would have much rather gone in first, but she’d been stubbornly adamant that she be the one the Calculator sees first. 

Which means Oliver’s currently fuming internally as he strides into the dank-smelling building, eyes alert for any suspicious movements in the shadows. He doesn’t trust any part of this meeting in the slightest, and he’s calling on all - and he means _all,_ from Yao Fei to Slade to ARGUS - of his prior training this evening. 

“Hello?” 

Felicity’s voice echoes eerily and the hairs on the back of Oliver’s neck bristle with trepidation. The building is windowless, musty, and when the door they walk in from shuts, they’re blanketed in near darkness. Oliver’s hand reaches for his weapon, primed for battle. He’s not leaving anything to chance. 

Oliver feels the shift in the air first, then hears the creepy, almost musical lilt of a man’s voice answering Felicity. “I told you to come alone, my Shining Star.” 

“Yeah, well, you’re going to have to excuse me for not trusting myself to be alone with you right now,” Felicity returns with an unfamiliar bite in her tone. 

Oliver feels Diggle moving next to him, and he suspects that he too is reaching for his weapon. Despite what Diggle may think of him right now, or how much he appears to disapprove of the idea of him and Felicity, he is reassured by the fact that he knows Diggle will always, one hundred percent have Felicity’s best interest at heart. 

And that's all that matters. 

“It’s no matter, really. The more, the merrier. I’m just so happy you showed up,” the voice says, before suddenly, the entire space is blinded by a bright flash of light. 

Oliver winces, eyes shutting momentarily on instinct, and next to him both Lyla and Diggle curse as they react to the unnatural brightness in the room. 

“Whoa...” he hears Felicity murmur, and then he opens his eyes and he’s inclined to agree. 

The room is set up like a... he doesn’t know, exactly, but it looks like the server bank that he, Diggle and Felicity broke into - only ten times as large. There are rows upon rows of server towers, and right in the centre of it all, three monitors atop a large desk, and behind that, a man, grinning at them like a well-mannered host of a garden party. 

If Oliver were to pass him in the streets, he would not have guessed that this man - in his crisp white polo shirt and well-groomed blonde hair - is supposed to be a notorious criminal, wanted by every federal agency in the country. 

“You’ve grown up,” the man says as steps around the desk to approach them providing them with the confirmation that he truly is Felicity’s father. Noah Kuttler. _The Calculator._

He’s wearing the most ordinary pair of khakis, but he walks with steely self assurance that exudes confidence and danger and Oliver’s senses go on high alert. 

All four of them back away instantly, Lyla and Diggle flanking Felicity while Oliver maintains his position behind her. 

“Eighteen years will do that to a person.” 

Pride surges through Oliver at Felicity’s unwavering tone. Nonetheless, he tightens his grip around his gun. He makes note of another door over the far side of the room, and guesses that it leads to another exit. Good to know.

“What do you want from me?” Felicity asks, not playing around. “Why am I here?” 

Her back ripples with tension, and Oliver inches forward, hoping that she can sense him there and draw some form of support from him. He raises a hand, resting two fingers against the middle of her spine. 

_Right here with you._

“We already know you’re the Calculator,” Felicity grinds between her teeth. “So stop messing around and just tell -” 

“Yes, yes, you’ve always been smart, haven’t you?” the man interrupts her, an increasingly annoying smirk playing on his lips. “It’s what made me so proud of you.” 

“You don’t get to be proud of me,” Felicity tells him evenly. “You left us. I said goodbye to you before I left to go to school, only I didn’t know it was goodbye forever. I was _seven!_ You... You don’t get to be proud of me.” 

“Ah,” Noah grins. He has both his hands shoved into his pockets, which raises all sorts of alarms, but Oliver keeps his calm, allowing Felicity to take the lead. “But Felicity, honey -” Felicity bristles at the endearment, but doesn’t say anything. “- you were seven, yes. And I knew the experience would make you stronger. My leaving made you who you are. Made you more resilient than that simpering _mother_ of -” 

“Don’t you dare!” Felicity yells, losing some of her composure. “Don’t you dare talk about Mom like you know -” 

Noah waves off her outburst with arrogant nonchalance. “I watched you graduate high school early, watched you graduate from MIT with two Masters degrees at nineteen, and then you moved to Starling City...” 

Felicity stiffens. Her hands curl into fists by her side. “You’ve... all these years, you’ve been keeping track of me? _I looked for you._ You never bothered to -” 

“Felicity, you have to understand, what I do... it’s sensitive business, you see? Dangerous people are after me, I couldn’t possibly put you in the crosshairs. Not my Little Star, my genius daughter. It was better to keep my distance. But then, after Queen Consolidated, you disappeared.”

The mood shifts. His tone changes. A frown flits over Noah’s face before it’s replaced with a smarmy, almost too nice smile. 

“You disappeared. Off the face of the planet, it seems. It worried me, until I heard of Ghost Fox Goddess and her... various criminal exploits.” 

Felicity’s jaw twitches, but she remains silent. They already know how the rest of the story plays out. The FBI used her to lure him out. And lure him out they did, because - 

Here they are. 

“Colour me surprised when I discovered that this _Ghost Fox Goddess_ used a hacker’s signature that I was familiar with. Turns out, the apple doesn’t fall very far from the tree at all, does it? You were using programs that I had developed and abandoned years and years ago, vastly improved them and for what? The most worthless, most _menial_ of criminal activities.” 

“Come _on._ You had so much potential. MIT, Queen Consolidated... and you end up as a hacker for hire? Honey, I taught you better than that.” 

“You taught me nothing!” Felicity snaps. “The only thing I learned from you was that the people who claim to love you will always leave you. You don’t get a claim on my successes. You are _nothing_ to me.”

Noah shrugs her off like nothing she says is new to him. His arrogance is increasingly frustrating and Oliver is really close to whipping his gun out and sinking a bullet into his head. How can that man stand there and disregard Felicity’s feelings like that? How can he act like his leaving his seven year old daughter was a casual business transaction? 

“But... think of what we could achieve together!” Noah exclaims with an air of grandeur. He advances another step. “Leave the basement level hacking to the amateurs, honey. You and me, with both our expertise, we could have the entire world in our hands!” 

And there it is. That’s why they’re here. 

It hits Oliver with full force like a ton of bricks and he growls under his breath. Noah tracked Felicity down, found out that she’s a criminal hacker and now the psycho is under some misguided impression that Felicity will _join him_. 

Oliver shifts his stance so he’s standing right next to Felicity instead of behind her. No fucking way. Not in this lifetime, or any lifetime. 

“You’re _deluded.”_ Felicity sneers, echoing his thoughts. The disgust in her voice is palpable, but it doesn’t do a thing to dissuade her father. 

_“Felicity,_ your coding prowess is unparalleled. With your skills and my experience, the whole world would bow down to us. All that power? In our hands? Imagine the things we could do!”

“Like what? Illegal arms trade? Selling government secrets? Sorry, hard pass, _daddy-o._ How about this, as an alternative? You can rot in a jail cell instead.” 

“Oh... you’re feisty. You know what? I’ll excuse your insubordination for now. It’s hard to wrap your head around, I know - but give me some time and we all - you and your little team, and me, we can -” 

He’s interrupted by a strange buzzing from his pockets. He frowns. 

_“Well,”_ Noah murmurs thoughtfully, a strange, yet dangerous look passing over his face. He pulls his top lip back in a sinister smile. Dragging one of his hands out of his pockets, Oliver notices that he’s holding onto a small device - a phone maybe - and he glances down at it briefly. 

“It seems that my security protocols have picked up an anomaly. My, my, my.” 

Oliver blanches. This is - _not good._

Felicity’s frequency jammer should have prevented any sort of electronics from working. But then again, this is the Calculator they’re dealing with. His hands grow cold. Diggle curses softly. He sees Felicity shift uncomfortably on her feet, likely coming to the same conclusion as he just did. 

Noah’s voice drops into a dangerous, sinister whisper as he scrolls through his device. “You’ve been lying to me, _haven’t you?_ Oh, I _underestimated_ you."

Oliver shares a panicked look with Lyla. Years of training and experience has taught him to recognise the moment a situation gets out of hand and _this -_ the sudden shift in Noah’s mood, the tension ratcheting up a hundred times what it was before - _this is it._

Lyla nods. She agrees. 

Diggle and Lyla both pull out their guns instantly, training them on Noah. Oliver follows suit, but also takes a solid step in front of Felicity, primed and ready for anything. Swallowing hard, he wills himself to just... keep his cool. They don’t want a full on bloodbath here. They want to take Noah in _alive._

Felicity remains stock still, frozen in her spot. Oliver hears her breathing heavily behind him, and he hopes to God that she’s also pulled her weapon out. Four guns, one man. 

Oliver likes their odds. 

Noah however, merely takes in the scene before him without so much as a flinch. The man who had welcomed Felicity into his lair is long gone, in his place is someone whose body language screams _danger;_ an unpredictable man who’s getting more worked up as the seconds tick by. 

He shows them the screen of the device he’s holding in his hand. Diggle’s face flashes before them.

Oh, no. 

Oliver casts Diggle a side-long look, and the man, though stoic as usual, is sporting a rather telling, protruding vein running along his temple. He’s probably also just realised, the same time Oliver did, that their cover has been blown. 

“The FBI? _Really?”_ Noah thunders with fury, confirming Oliver’s worst fears. His whole body seems to vibrate with anger. He startles them by throwing the device onto the ground and stomping on it, splintering the glass beneath his feet. 

Noah screams. “This is so _disappointing!!”_

Noah shakes his head and he starts to walk forward predatorily, the expression on his face morphing with disdain with each step. Oliver picks up on the slight trembling in his hands, the almost wild, rabid gleam in his eyes. He’ _s losing_ it. 

“Felicity,” Oliver mumbles under his breath. His heart grows heavy with dread. “This might get ugly.” 

“Yeah, _shocker.”_ He feels her small hand curl around the back of his bicep momentarily before she retreats. 

She’s up to something. 

Something _sneaky_ behind him and it takes every ounce of his willpower not to turn around to make sure she’s okay, but he resists the urge. Felicity’s fully capable of holding her own and he respects that, as much as his body is screaming at him to bundle her up and drag her out and away from there.

Instead, he doubles his effort in shielding her, broadening his shoulders, lengthening his spine. 

“Stop right there,” Lyla grits out as Noah keeps advancing towards them. She takes a step forward threateningly. Refocuses her gun on him. “Not another step.” 

Noah turns to Lyla at her warning, almost like he’s just remembered there are other people in the room besides Felicity. 

_“You,”_ he whispers, wide eyed. “I don’t know you.” Then he turns, just a little, fixing his disconcerting gaze on Oliver. His voice drops as his lips curl back in a snarl. “Or you... who are _you?_ Protecting my dear Felicity the way you are. You - you’re someone... _special._ WHO ARE YOU?!” 

Oliver tightens his grip on his gun, not allowing the fury in Noah’s voice get to him. He swallows hard and keeps his lips pressed together, breathing evenly. Never taking his eyes off the crazy man who’s practically frothing at the mouth standing before them. 

A stray thought flits through his brain. If Noah doesn’t know who he and Lyla are, then this is still salvageable. They can work with this. Somehow. A flutter of hope blooms among the dread that’s settled like a rock in the pit of his stomach. 

Felicity fidgets behind him, bumping into his back gently. She’s muttering to herself, but he picks up on her last line, “Of course ARGUS is better covering up identities than the FBI. Colour me _not_ surprised.”

A wave of fondness crashes over him - they’re on the same wavelength, as usual. A wry grin spreads over his face, that is, until he notices that Noah’s stopped advancing towards them, and it falters. 

Because in his hand, Noah is now holding -

Oliver’s blood turns to ice.

A _detonator._

Which means this meeting is now wholly, irreparably, out of their control.

* * *

Crap, crap, crap, crap, _crap._

Oliver’s still standing in her way, but there’s no mistaking that her father is holding a _mother fracking detonator_ in his hands. 

Not good. Her entire body feels numb. Panic-stricken. All her training has deserted her. How convenient. Her three companions seem just as shell-shocked as she is, and they still have their guns pointed at him so it’s not like they have their hands free to do anything else so... well.

Fly by the seat of her pants it is then. 

“Okay! Okay, don’t press that button!” she calls out, sounding a lot, like, _a lot,_ more confident than she actually feels. She tucks her phone into her back pocket, making sure it’s firmly in place before sucking in a deep, steadying breath. 

She ducks past Oliver’s defensive stance, ignoring the guttural growl of protest rumbling from his chest. She holds both her hands up - hopefully amidst his bout of insanity, he recognises it as the universal sign of _I come in peace._

“Why do you have a detonator?” she asks carefully. 

She keeps her body language as open as possible, leaving nothing to misinterpretation so that she doesn’t accidentally set her psychopath of a father off and -

Blow them all up. 

Or something. 

“Because, my dear, like you, _I’m not an idiot!”_ Noah bellows. He waves the detonator in the air and all four of them gasp simultaneously. They fall back. Noah sneers, “You didn’t think I’d come here without some sort of insurance policy, did you!? _DID YOU?!_ Now tell me who they are!! _Why is the FBI here?!”_

He brandishes the detonator at them again.

“Okay - shit, don’t-” Felicity gulps. Right. He still doesn’t know about ARGUS, she can use that to her advantage.

Stick as close to the truth as possible. 

She raises one of her hands higher, waving the other one behind her in Oliver’s direction. “This guy? Leader of the Odessa. Russian mafia. He’s the one who picked up your transmitter in the first place and hired me to hack it.” 

She crosses her fingers, mentally anyway, hoping to God _that_ part of her cover story is still intact. Stupid, dumb, FBI incompetence. 

When Noah doesn’t react, she continues, thinking on her feet. “Diggle here? Who you identified as FBI? He’s... he’s my inside man. I promise. You know, better than anyone else, that when you’re hiding from the law, there’s no better ally than someone on who _is_ the law. There’s nothing more to it than that.” 

Not bad for making it up as she goes along, she thinks to herself. Semi-plausible. She even delivers it without sounding like she’s the slightest bit nervous, which is really _impressive._ Her heart though, is thundering in her chest and she’s sweating so much her shirt is sticking to her back. 

God. 

“And she,” Felicity points to Lyla, “is just my bodyguard. So you see? You don’t have to - you don’t have to do anything drastic, okay?” 

She holds her breath and prays to whatever god, deity, higher power in existence that her ruse has worked. She’s not a great liar, but maybe to insane madmen, lies and the half-truths are all the same. 

To her surprise and relief, Noah throws his head back and laughs heartily. The manic sound echoes off the walls, grating on her already frayed nerves. 

“You! Think!” he bellows, “That _this,”_ Noah waves the detonator in the air again, without a care in the world, “is for _you?!”_

“Oh, my dear,” Noah shakes his head like he’s speaking to a child. He drawls, “I wouldn’t blow this place up. Not with me in here. Not with all this -” He gestures to the array of servers in the room. “But you know that.” 

“You know that because _you_ are a genius, like me.” His voice drops. He snarls, pointing the detonator in her direction, which only serves to send her heart yet into another terrifying drop. “Which is why you’re going to join me, or I _will_ press this button.” 

Okay, Felicity. Think.

The explosives aren’t here - they’re somewhere else. Which means the detonator operates using a remote frequency. He also still thinks she’s open to being his partner or whatever. That’s good. She can use that to her advantage... maybe? 

Her brain isn’t working, fuzzy with the weight of the entire situation slowly unraveling before her. Out of the four of them, she’s the one who has the highest chance of diffusing it and it’s stressful and - 

“What does it do then?” Oliver demands, cutting right through her thoughts. “If it doesn’t detonate anything in here, what does it detonate?” 

His fierce growl helps settle some of her uneasiness. It’s a reminder that he’s still here. Digg’s here. Lyla’s here. And her team has her back. 

“Ah, mafia man,” Noah grins dangerously. “You - you’re the one I have to thank for bringing my daughter to me, aren’t you? Just as well that I left you a present as a... thank you, then.” 

Felicity sees Oliver’s jaw clench. 

“What are you _talking_ about?” Oliver snaps, cocking his gun. His entire arm is tensed, finger poised on the trigger - except so is Noah’s on his detonator and - 

“Do you know what nanobots are?” her father asks suddenly. 

“Microscopic robots,” Diggle grunts. “What-”

“Yes!” Noah crows with delight. He cackles again. “One point to the double-crossing FBI Agent. Yes! Microscopic robots that have by now, infected every device that my USB drive has come into contact with. Tiny robots, specifically engineered to multiply every second, and then self-destruct with ten thousand times the fire power of your common C4 explosive, with one, simple...” 

He feigns depressing the button on the detonator. “Push of a button.” 

“Every device...” Felicity repeats quietly. The picture in her head forms quickly. Terror streaks through her bloodstream. That kind of technology doesn’t - _shouldn’t_ \- exist. But... something about her father’s wild state makes her believe that he’s telling the truth. 

She turns to Oliver, not bothering to hide the paralysing fear swelling within her. “The Hub City server bank,” she whispers. The implications of what Noah’s saying slams into her. “That kind of explosion will take out -” 

Oliver sucks in a shaky breath. “My desktop.”

Felicity blinks at him. “What-”

“My desktop. We used it there. In my office. Underneath the Glades.” 

The blood drains from Felicity’s face. 

“Do you see, Felicity,” Noah’s smug voice booms around her. “The kind of power I yield? Don’t you want this? Don’t you want to know how this came to be? Don’t you just want to get your hands on the code for these nanobots? The sheer brilliance of the engineering behind them? I know you do, you and me, we’re the same, you and I. The same blood, you have my DNA -” 

_“We’re not the same!!”_ Felicity explodes. Her rage is blinding, built up from the moment she came home from school to find her mother despondent in front of their tiny little TV in Vegas. 

“I am nothing like you! You sick, murderous, bastard!”

She doesn’t even finish her sentence before she charges at him. Almost as if this is the very signal he’s been waiting for, Oliver springs into action in her periphery. A gunshot rings out, from which one of her friends, she’s not sure, but the look of utter shock on Noah’s face as she barrels into him is immensely satisfying. He must not have expected her to attack him - not with the detonator in his hand. 

Too bad for him.

She puts her entire weight into her forward motion to increase her momentum the way Digg had taught her to. Her shoulder catches the brunt of her tackle, and she knows she’ll feel this after, but for now, she grits her teeth through the jolt of pain and sends them both tumbling to the ground. Her chin bounces off the cement with a sickening crack, but she shrugs that off too. 

The detonator clatters out of his hands and a pair of boots appear in her line of sight (Digg’s? Oliver’s?) to kick it further away from him. Felicity scrambles to her feet, confident that the rest of them will take care of subduing her maniac of a father. They’re not out of danger yet. If she were him, and boy does that thought give her the creeps, she’d have a failsafe just in case something went wrong. 

A backup plan.

She runs to the desk in the middle of the room. Nothing with a circuit board is meant to be working, not with her electronic jammer still in play - or... she _thinks_ is still in play. The only thing that _should_ be working is her phone. She made sure of that before she walked in here, because the code she used was specifically written to - 

Hang on. _The code that she used_.

Felicity cringes in dismay. The software that she’d tweaked for her jammer is based on the code she’d lifted from the notebooks _her father_ had left behind. 

That’s why all _his_ tech still works.

How could she have not seen this coming?! If she’d thought about this - if she’d just been smarter, she should have realised that he would be using the very same framework she does. If she’d just... 

If she’d been _better,_ she’d have known that her frequency jammer wouldn’t work on Noah’s tech. She should have made one hundred percent sure that their cover stories were solid - then the situation wouldn’t have spiraled so far out of her control. Felicity slams her hands on the desk angrily, frustrated with herself. 

The sudden movement makes the monitors blink to life. Huh. The cocky bastard hadn’t bothered locking the computer down. Her self-loathing is put on the backburner for now as she realises that she can still redeem herself. 

Scanning the three monitors in front of her briefly gives her a rudimentary understanding of what he’s doing, though it isn’t exactly helpful in telling her how to disrupt the remote connection between the detonator and the explosive nanobots that would take out half the population in the Glades. 

“Do you really think you can stop me?!” Noah screams hysterically, before a dull thud renders him silent. 

Felicity allows herself a second to look up. Noah’s struggling on his knees, fighting against Diggle and Lyla who are holding him down with his hands at his back. Oliver looms in front of him, fist clenched around his gun. 

“Don’t worry about him. We’ve got this. You figure all _that_ out!” he grunts, gesturing to the computers. 

“You won’t. You won’t stop me! I won’t _let you!”_

Noah descends into even more hysterics, yelling at her incoherently. She nods at Oliver, ignoring him. 

All she needs to do is disable these self-destructing, multiplying nanobots. It’s technology she’s never encountered before, but nanobots are just... really, really tiny robots, right? And _robots,_ she can work with. She dives into the program, ignoring the rest of the world around her. This is the only thing she has to do. What she does best. Then when she’s disabled the damn things, she can hand Noah over to the FBI or ARGUS or whoever else wants him and... then she’ll figure the rest out. 

Felicity doesn’t know how much time passes once she gets stuck into it. It could have been seconds, or minutes, but eventually she hits a line of code that sends her to a complete halt. Her throat goes dry. She stumbles back as one of the three monitor screens flicker out. 

She chokes, gasping at what she sees. Big, bold, numbers appear on the one screen, replacing the sleek program she’s just tried to hack into. Slowly counting down from 300. 

Seconds. 300 seconds. 

Noah’s smug voice filters through over the dull ringing in her ears. “Just realised, have you?” 

His backup plan. His failsafe. _This is it._

“You guys need to go,” she whispers frantically. She can’t keep the terror out of her voice as she addresses Diggle, Lyla and Oliver. She swallows the bile in her throat. “Take him, and then turn him in. Now.” 

“Felicity, what’s -” 

“My dearest daughter has just realised that nothing she does here will change anything.” Noah sneers, then succumbs to a bout of wretched laughter. “Isn’t that right? You may have caught me, but my legacy - _the Calculator’s-”_

“Felicity!” Oliver barks as he pistol whips Noah violently. He falls sideways from the impact, and remains motionless, out cold. Oliver pays him no mind, storming up to stand right next to her. 

“What is he talking about?!” 

“He lied,” she snaps. Her skin crawls with disgust, with regret, with heartbreak. “I should have known he would. This place _is_ rigged to blow. As a last resort, I guess? If he goes down, so do we - and all this evidence. Oliver, those nanobots are here. In this computer. _YOU GOTTA GO!”_

Diggle and Lyla rush up to her, but Oliver cuts them off. “You guys take him.” He nods towards Noah’s still-motionless body. “I’ve got Felicity.” 

The two of them hesitate. Diggle shakes his head vehemently. “No, no, we’re not leaving you behind.” 

“Please, please just go,” Felicity pleads. God, can’t they see that they’re _wasting precious time!_

“Digg, you have to take him in and make him answer for all his crimes. You’re the senior agent. I have - I have five minutes to stop this. His program is still running, there’s got to be a way that I can disable the bots and keep them from blowing up. Because if they do... if I don’t stop this, people will _die._ Please. Just _go.”_

Oliver’s hands come down over her shoulders. Confusion skitters over his face. “Felic-”

_“You have no time,”_ she forces out, shrugging his hands off of her. “Get out of here. I’m going to keep trying. There’s gotta be a way.” She doesn’t like her chances, but if her white lie means it gets everyone out of the building, then, so be it. This is on her anyway. This is all her fault and she’s the only one who can fix it. No one but her deserves to die here, if it comes to it. 

“Go!” Oliver tells Diggle and Lyla gruffly, leaving no room for argument in the strained determination in his voice. “Go, take that asshole with you. I have her,” he growls. “Diggle, _I promise,_ I have her.” 

Frustration courses through her. Why are they still arguing? “No, _you all_ have to -”

Oliver turns to her, furious. His eyes are a blazing blue, cutting into her like shards of broken glass. “Felicity, for God’s sake, _get hacking!”_

Stunned by his outburst, she spends a millisecond gaping at him before she jumps right back into the code. She hears Diggle and Lyla scuffling in the background, hopefully meaning they’re taking Noah and getting out of there. 

Two out of three. She’ll take it. 

Her fingers fly over the keyboard. She’s never, ever, worked so fast - and so hard - in her entire life. 

“Felicity...” Oliver worries from behind her. “Three minutes.” 

“Maybe you should make your way out,” she mutters absent-mindedly. “I’m close.” 

“I’m not leaving without you.” 

“Well then shut up so I can concentrate,” she hisses. Oliver’s stubborn persistence is annoying, but she can’t deny that having him here is... nice. In a morbid, last rites kind of way. 

She has two more? No, three more protocols for her to dismantle before the timer runs out. 

And two minutes to do it. 

She manages to brute-force her way through the most complex string of algorithms she’s ever seen in her life. Her focus is so intense, it feels like all her senses have been heightened. Oliver’s fidgeting behind her. She can hear his every intake of breath and the slow, measured way he’s exhaling. The rhythmic whisper of skin against skin tells her he’s rubbing his fingers together, nervous. She can smell the sweat, the fear and desperation - though that’s probably more her than him at this point. 

“Felicity, c’mon, lets go,” Oliver begs. “It’s not... I won’t let you die here.” 

“And what about when your underground lair blows up, taking the Glades and its inhabitants with it? Do _they_ deserve to die because of my oversight? Because my father is a goddamn lunatic?”

One more protocol. She’s so close. So _very,_ close. 

“Felicity-” 

“Shut up! Oliver, please, just get out of here!” 

“I am not fucking leaving you here, do you _understand!?”_ he roars. “Felicity! We gotta-” 

Too late. 

The timer hits zero. 

And ironically, time slows _right down_.

She hears the tell-tale crackle of the computer in front of her frying first. The monitors wink out into darkness, one by one, mirroring the way the last remnants of hope dies in her, taking every good memory she’s ever had in this lifetime with it. 

The CPU on the desk starts sparking. Then the servers go. One by one, like a strange domino fall of explosions, the servers start exploding. Tiny little explosions, at first, but she knows that once the nanobots pick up the pace, once they’ve multiplied enough, they’re literally done for. 

The shriek of metal against metal fills the air and flames start licking around them. She spins on her heels to face Oliver, so at least, _at the very least,_ his will be the last face she sees before the end. 

His expression is grim, ashen and yet - still so very handsome. His arms come around her in an instant and then he’s pulling her down, shoving her under the desk and onto the floor, bundling her into his arms like she weighs _nothing._ Her glasses get knocked askew and she yelps, alarmed, but it’s lost in the chaos. 

When she opens her eyes to the blurry outline of Oliver’s face, time speeds right up again. 

Amidst the deafening howl of the flames around them and the increasing volume of explosions as the fire travels from one server tower to another, she realises Oliver’s yelling at her. She doesn’t understand him though. Not through the noise, not through the absolute fear licking through her. 

Oliver curves his body around her as he drags along the floor, shielding her from the worst of the blasts Tears stream down her face though her eyes remain shut, and she repeats, over and over and over, that she’s sorry. She’s so sorry. She couldn’t stop it. She couldn’t stop this. 

“Oliver!” she gasps, choking. She forces her eyes open so she can look him in the eye. Her hands claw at his chest, needing to savour her last physical human connection. “I really thought I could do it. Oliver, I swear I-”

And then - it all _ends._

As abruptly as it started, the explosions just... stop. 

Oliver freezes over her, his huge bulk blocking her view so she’s clueless as to what the fuck just -

A door slams open in the distance and she curls into Oliver even more, tightening her grip on him. 

A voice calls out through the crackling of the flames, loud and clear and heavily accented. 

“Next time, my dear _Ghost Fox Goddess -”_

Recognition, and then relief, floods through her system, and Felicity - she’s could just cry - she _forgot_. How could she have forgotten about her last ditch attempt at a Hail Mary? She lets go of Oliver, sprawling on her back to catch her breath. Her eyes flutter shut. 

“- when you send a text message, please do not use your nerd language with me. I had to Google what an EMP is, _krasotka.”_

Oliver climbs off her, presumably to confront the newcomer. His voice rings out, loud and clear, laced with disbelief and confusion. 

_“Anatoly?_ What the fuck?!” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> From Russia with love indeed :) 
> 
> Love you all! xoxo 
> 
> Twitter: @griever_11


	17. Chapter 17

**February 2014, Ravenspur, outside Building 102**

John Diggle is a man of very few words. He prefers to keep counsel to himself unless it’s absolutely needed, doesn’t care for office gossip, and is generally happy enough with his position at the FBI, rotating rookies in and out of training until they graduated. He doesn’t particularly care to make real connections with anyone (the last time he did, he’d ended up divorced) and for years, he’d been content. 

But then the bright, slightly strange, blonde, bespectacled new recruit stumbled into his life, quite literally - she’d walked into him on her first day - and though he’d deny it if you asked him, she had single-handedly made him reassess his entire stance on making friends at the Academy. 

He’d caught her by the arm that particular Monday morning, preventing her from falling over face first, and she’d proceeded to apologise profusely, babbling about his solid build and his biceps, then backpedalling because she’d been afraid to be called up for harassment on her first day with the FBI. 

Charmed. 

Diggle had been completely _charmed_ by her; smiling, possibly for the first time in a long time, at her antics. As luck would have it, he’d been assigned to be her Training Officer and he had _really_ warmed up to her by the time she was ready to graduate. She was quirky, and her unconventional recruitment had made her different but also more endearing than the rest of her peers. 

In all fairness, it was near impossible _not_ to be drawn to her. Her propensity for off-tangent rambling aside, she was intelligent, a quick study, worked so hard at every module, and Diggle always appreciates hard work. The last couple of months being undercover with her strengthened their friendship, and he now thinks of her as the sister he always asked for from his parents but never got. 

Except - 

Except getting to know Felicity as well as he does means that his heart is breaking. _Shattering,_ right now. 

Because while he’s dragging the dead weight of Noah Kuttler away from the building that’s about to go up in flames, Felicity’s _still inside._

Her persistent determination had once been something he’d been impressed by but today? Right this second? He hates it. He hates it with a passion because it means that she’s not giving up. He _knows_ her, and knows how she’s probably shouldering the unwarranted guilt of potentially blowing up half the Glades, and therefore not going to get out of the building until she stops her father’s exploding nanobot army. 

But she only has... 

_Two minutes left._

Anxiety streaks through him. Sweat drips down his forehead and panic bubbles up into his throat. She can’t die like this. Not like this. He’s her superior officer. Her mentor. He’s supposed to _protect_ her. 

“Johnny!” Lyla’s distressed cry snaps him out of his spiralling thoughts. 

She’s heaving Noah into his van, and Diggle rushes to help her. “Lyla,” he grunts. “I gotta go back in. I have to-” 

“Oliver won’t let her die in there, Johnny,” Lyla tells him as she slams the door shut. She doesn’t sound confident though, and she glances at the door they’d just come out of with a worrying grimace. 

_One minute._

“We can’t just do _nothing!”_ Diggle yells, slamming his fist into the side of the van. 

He’s not Oliver’s biggest fan, but he doesn’t want the guy to die. And Felicity’s taken quite a liking to him, unfortunately, which means there’s _something_ in him that’s palatable (ugh) to her so - 

He makes his decision. He’s already running back towards the building, ignoring Lyla’s frantic yelling, as he shouts, “I’m going back in! Lyla, watch Noah! Get backup!” 

_Time’s up._

But he has to _try._

Just as he’s about to yank the door open, a series of explosions fill the air and he stops in his tracks. Smoke starts billowing out the doorway and he hears even more explosions, then a roar of fire from inside. 

_No no no._

He pulls the door open, but before he can rush in, seemingly out of nowhere another figure emerges, running at him at full speed. The figure nearly knocks him over, skidding to a halt at the doorway. 

Their proximity to the building means the smoke engulfs them both and Diggle’s eyes are watering, tearing up, but he recognises him immediately. 

_“Anatoly?”_ Diggle rasps, throat burning from the smoke. 

“No time to talk,” the Russian announces before kicking the door fully open and running inside.

Stunned by the sudden turn of events, it takes him a full second to regain the use of his legs and when he does he charges inside too, gun at the ready. He stops just in time to see Anatoly hold a small rectangular box up, and then jamming his thumb on the one single button on it. 

Diggle flinches and shuts his eyes. He doesn’t know what he expected, but it certainly wasn’t the almost silent whine, a long, monotonous, electronic beep, and then - 

His ears start ringing. Everything is _muted,_ hushed, much like the after effect of someone throwing a flashbang grenade at him - only _without_ the actual grenade. He shakes his head and cracks an eye open. 

To his surprise, the room is intact. 

And there are no more explosions. 

The servers that surround the outside of the are still sparking dangerously, some still aflame and on the fritz, but other than the thick smoke, everything seems - 

Fine. 

Slowly, his hearing comes back to him, and he hears Anatoly saying, “... text message, please do not use your nerd language with me. I had to Google what an EMP is, _krasotka.”_

Diggle blinks the smoke out of his eyes, and spies a huge lump on the floor, just past where Noah’s desk. It’s _them_ , he realises with a start. 

Oliver’s body is on top of Felicity’s like he’d thrown himself over her to protect her from the fire. 

His back is singed, a hole in his shirt where it’s burnt through, and - Diggle winces - so is his skin. Red and raw, _bleeding._ He only sees it for a second before Oliver’s whirling around, like he feels _none_ of it, standing proud and tall, staring at both him and the Russian, dumbfounded. 

“Anatoly?” Oliver gasps in disbelief, coughing, and then turns to face Diggle. “What the fuck?!”

* * *

**February 2014, Ravenspur, outside Building 102**

“You don’t have to carry me, Oliver,” Felicity grumbles, voice hoarse and shaky.

Oliver snorts, her complaint only serving to make him tighten his hold on her. He has a hand under her knees and the other cradling her upper body into his chest. She’s hanging onto him, hands looped around his neck.

“You lost your glasses so you’re practically blind. There is debris everywhere that you could trip over and you think I don’t know you hurt your ankle, but I do, so yes, Felicity, I’m carrying you.”

Plus, once the threat of the nanobots had subsided and the shock of seeing Anatoly looming over them had worn off, Diggle had told him, point blank, that he’d murder Oliver if Felicity gets so much as another scratch on her while Oliver got her to safety. 

Hence the carrying. 

“But Oliver, you’re hurt too.” 

He leans his head down, brushing an affectionate kiss over her temple, overwhelmed by the wave of tenderness that crashes over him at her quiet declaration. 

“I’ve had worse, this is fine,” he reassures her, even as a gust of biting wind sends a stinging pain searing down his back. He’s not lying, per se. He _has_ had worse, but it doesn’t mean he doesn’t feel it. 

“Backup is on their way,” Lyla calls out just as he gets to the van. 

She has Diggle’s satellite phone against her ear, leaning against the side of the van. “Both your people and mine. And fair warning, _nobody_ is happy with any of us. I had some issues getting the call through thanks to the EMP, so that didn’t help, but they’re coming.” She twists her lips in a disgruntled scowl before she walks over to Diggle, who’s having a quiet conversation with Anatoly around the back of the van. 

“Does she know the EMP saved our lives? She doesn’t have to look so mad about it.” Felicity grouses in his arms, detecting Lyla’s less than impressed tone, and Oliver can’t help but huff in amusement.

He’s so in awe of her - and he suspects he will be for the rest of his life. She’d explained, hastily, as they scrambled out of Building 102, that she’d managed to send an SOS to Anatoly before all hell broke loose inside. It had been a last ditch attempt on her part, and Oliver remembers wondering what she’d been up to, fidgeting around behind him when they were facing Noah earlier. 

Now that he knows, he’s eternally grateful that she’d had the foresight to reach out for the additional help. Even if it’s from the last person on Earth he ever thought she’d reach out to.

“Hey, how did you get Anatoly’s number anyway?” Oliver asks her now that they’re out of the immediate danger and have a few minutes alone. 

Slowly, he lets Felicity down, making sure she doesn’t place any weight on her hurt ankle. They both lean against the spot where Lyla had just vacated, Oliver turning to his side to face her so he doesn’t aggravate his burn. 

“I saved it from way back when you first called me for help all that time ago, remember?” She quirks her brows at him. 

Oh. 

Yeah, he _remembers_ alright. Fondly. He remembers how she’d intrigued him with just her sass, the confident lilt of her voice, how she’d taken both him and Anatoly by surprise with her cockiness. 

“Of course, I remember. You swindled ten million dollars from us,” he teases. 

“Please, it was ARGUS’ money,” Felicity retorts, rolling her eyes. He watches her glance over to where Anatoly’s standing. Her expression sobers as she reaches out to squeeze his hand briefly before dropping it. 

“I wasn’t actually sure if he’d show up though. And then I kinda... forgot about him in the end, what with the nanobots and explosions and trying to prevent our imminent deaths. I’m so glad he came. Also glad he figured out EMP stood for Electromagnetic Pulse.” 

He lets her casual explanation sink in slowly. ARGUS trained Oliver well, and his time on the island had taught him a great many things so he considers himself a fairly well-rounded, highly experienced Agent. But Felicity? Felicity works on an entirely different level and Oliver can’t help the curiosity that keeps growing and growing with every second that he spends around her. 

He wants to know how Felicity’s brain works, desperate to catch a glimpse into the inner workings of her genius mind and. He ignores the dull throb of pain of the burn spreading over his back in favour of being awed (again) by her brilliance by asking, “How’d you know the EMP would work?” 

“Sometimes the best solutions are the easiest ones,” she answers cryptically over a laboured sigh. She shakes her head, makes a funny face, then elaborates.

“Just in case my frequency jammer didn’t work - which ha, it _didn’t -_ I knew a well-timed EMP would take out _all_ the electronics in the room. I sent Anatoly a text to get one so we could wipe out his servers in case things went south, so that my father wouldn’t have all this data anymore, but lucky for us, and you know - the Glades - the EMP also took out his creepy explode-y nanobots and the remote circuitry before they could deal too much damage.” 

Oliver lets out a long breath as he realises that they all survived on a _just in case._

“I don’t know what he was doing here in Ravenspur, though,” Felicity wonders thoughtfully. “We’re hours away from Starling. When I sent him that text I assumed he’d be here later, to wipe the servers once everything was done. Not y’know, just in time to literally save our lives.” 

“I was already on my here.” 

Oliver startles at the intrusion, spinning around on his heels. 

“You were acting strange, Oliver,” Anatoly shrugs. “At first, I thought you were just fooling around with Miss Felicity.” He tilts his head at her apologetically. “But then you kept disappearing, taking on missions on your own, asking me to get you a motel room in this... middle of nowhere town. When your phone went off the grid and you missed a call from the _Pakhan,_ I knew something was wrong."

"I wanted to check if you were okay so I left the city, only to get Miss Felicity's text message just before I got here. And I see now, that the situation is far more complex than I thought." Anatoly eyes Felicity warily. "What with the FBI being involved. 

Oliver finds himself unable to respond. His throat closes up. Anatoly had been speaking to Diggle and Lyla, so finding out that Felicity worked for the FBI was inevitable. But it also could mean that _his_ cover is more likely than not already blown.

His stint with the mafia is likely over, and all that’s left for him is to wait for the final blow to land. Anatoly might have saved them today, but he’s still a member of the Odessa. And the Russian mafia, generally speaking, frowns upon any form of double-crossing, which is exactly what Oliver's been doing the entire time he’s been there. It puts him in an uncertain and wholly untenable position. 

And he hates it. 

Will this put a target on his back for the rest of his life? Is he about to be hunted, not just the remaining members of the Odessa in Starling, but also by the _Pakhan_ \- the head of the entire Russian Bratva? What does that mean for him? An eternity spent watching his back, living his life on the run? 

And... what does it mean for _Felicity?_

“Don’t look so worried, Oliver,” Anatoly chuckles, ending the tense silence between them. “Or your face will stay that way.” 

“His face is already like that all the time,” Felicity chimes in. Her eyes widen and she visibly gulps. “Kind of. Only when he’s angry. Or grumpy. Or -” 

Oliver’s too keyed up and while her babbling is usually adorable and heartwarming, this time he cuts her off curtly. He inserts an element danger into his words, dropping his voice. “Why _shouldn’t_ I be worried, Anatoly?” 

“Because I will not tell our brothers about your... affiliation with these _Americans,”_ Anatoly hums, smirking like he knows something the rest of them don't. He has the audacity to wink at Felicity before he continues. “I don’t blame you. Look at her. Beautiful, smart, and brave enough to reach out to someone she barely knows to save the Glades. I would swap sides for her too, if I were in your position.”

Oliver stares at the Russian, slowly piecing two and two together. So Diggle and Lyla _haven’t_ outed him as an ARGUS plant. Anatoly thinks he's just someone who fell for Felicity (not untrue), and as a result had decided to work with the FBI. A burst of warm gratefulness erupts in his chest. 

“Uh-huh,” Felicity chirps. “I _totally_ seduced him with my wily, female ways, that’s exactly what I did. And he didn’t even see it coming.” Bless her - she’s playing up Anatoly’s misunderstanding. “Actually, I didn’t give him much of a choice, I threatened to completely destroy him if he didn't help me with the Calculator, and he was forced to do _everything_ I asked, so-”

“I do not need to know what you two do in private, Miss Felicity,” Anatoly interjects, his grin growing when Felicity turns a deep shade of red and snaps her mouth shut. He turns to Oliver. 

“But I do need something from you, Oliver. In exchange for my... discretion.” 

Oliver swallows. His earlier relief fades a little and he nods once, holding his breath awaiting Anatoly’s request. 

“Step down. Leave our brotherhood. And then name me as your successor. You and I, we’ve been brothers for a long time. You save my life, I save your life. I keep _all of this_ to myself, you let me lead the rest of our brothers.” 

“Whoa,” Felicity gasps, clearly taken aback by his offer. "Just like that?"

Oliver remains motionless, stunned. He lets Anatoly's request sink in slowly. 

It’s... it’s _perfect._ His position within the Russians has always been on shaky ground. Even more so over the last couple of months, while his attention had been solely concentrated on the blasted USB drive. Top that off with defecting members and the ever-growing threat of the other criminal outfits in Starling, ARGUS was probably going to pull him out of there soon anyway. 

His gaze drifts to Lyla. 

He wonders what she had told Anatoly earlier. If she hadn’t revealed to Anatoly that Oliver was actually an undercover operative, then maybe she’s thinking of her own future too? One that is free of the Odessa and... maybe, possibly, ARGUS as well? 

“What do you say, _comrade?”_ Anatoly prods and Oliver turns his attention back to him. Felicity looks on with keen interest, eyes darting between the two men. She’s gnawing on her bottom lip gently, and he wishes he could hit pause for a second and ask her what _she_ thinks he should do. 

If he should take _them_ into consideration in making his decision. If there even will be... a ‘them’. They’ve been through a hell of a lot in a really short period of time, what if this is all just one huge adrenaline influenced fling for her? He knows where he stands in this - but Felicity... she’s a harder nut to crack. 

And is it too soon in their relationship to be thinking about including her in all his life-altering decisions?

He’s so fucking whipped, and he's not even mad about it. Wow. 

“I need an answer, Oliver,” Anatoly repeats, impatience lingering in the air. “I would like to leave here before more of Miss Felicity’s other uniformed friends arrive. You understand.” 

“He’ll do it.” 

Oliver startles at Lyla’s sudden interruption. His partner walks up to him, with Diggle in tow. “Won’t you, Oliver? Give up the mafia. You’ll do it.”

Oliver’s heart soars. A rush of air escapes from between his lips as he stares at Lyla in disbelief. Much like someone’s set off another EMP, his hearing dulls, filled instead with a strange hum, drowning out the rest of the conversation between the other four around him. She’s giving him the green light. His blood sings. 

Is this what... freedom feels like? Like a slow uncurling of the sharp talons of duty and obligation that have long taken hold around his heart? 

“Hey.” 

Felicity’s quiet voice drags him out of his reverie. 

“You okay?” 

Oliver blinks at her, taking in the concerned furrow of her brow. There’s blood smeared over the side of her head, tiny little cuts over her pale skin, but she’s smiling. A shadow of her usual brilliant, teeth-baring grin, but she’s _smiling_ and suddenly he wants to smile too. Big and wide, and free.

“Yeah,” he chuckles, an uncharacteristic rumble of happiness bubbling out of his chest. “I’m okay. And yeah.” He turns to Anatoly, catching Lyla’s subtle nod in his periphery. “I agree to your terms.” 

Anatoly puffs out his chest, then holds his hand out to Oliver for a handshake. Oliver obliges, then on an impulse, pulls his him into a one armed embrace. The sentiment catches both men by surprise, but Anatoly’s always been different and criminal or not, Anatoly did just save their lives. If he wants to take the reins from him and deal with what’s left of the Odessa, then so be it.

“You should go,” Oliver tells him gruffly as he pulls back. He gestures at Lyla and Diggle. “The uh, feds are on their way. I’ll keep the Odessa out of it as much as I can,” he lies. “Least I can do.” 

“Okay, then, Oliver. I will handle our brothers. You stay safe. Live your life, that is, if the FBI lets you after all this.” Anatoly smirks. “And don’t take this the wrong way, but I sincerely hope I never, ever, see any of you again.”

* * *

**March 2014, Quantico**

It’s almost poetic, Felicity thinks as she surveys her surroundings, that her career with the FBI starts and ends the same way: in a dull, grey-walled room that lacks any form of personality whatsoever. 

Oh - except this time, she’s not here alone. 

Digg, stalwart leader, her loyal friend, has his huge arms crossed over his chest, glaring murderously at the door that has remained solidly shut for the last twenty minutes. 

“S’not gonna magically open no matter how hard you stare at it, Digg,” Felicity tells him smartly. She’s done this before after all. She’s, like, an expert on being held captive in not-so-secret interrogation rooms that belong to the FBI.

“We’ve been treated like second class citizens all week, Felicity. Hell, I took three polygraph tests -”

“They made me take _four_ ,” Felicity counters. 

“- and you’d think that if they’re about to send us away for committing treason, they’d just do it already, and not keep us waiting here like -” 

“Do you really think we’re going to get charged with treason?” Felicity can’t help but interrupt. “‘Cause they already threatened me with that once and I agreed to join the FBI so that they _wouldn’t,_ so it’s not like I can join the FBI _again_ to take that off my record this time. But I mean, we handed Noah over to them and surely our very, very, short, stint as rogue FBI Agents can be overlooked? Right?” 

When he remains tight lipped, Felicity growls under her breath. 

“We handed over a most wanted criminal to them _on a silver platter!”_ she reiterates. “They didn’t even have to fight ARGUS for him, we gotta thank Lyla for that one day, by the way. Surely that counts for something. Silver platter, Digg!” 

His grunt of response is not reassuring at all. 

“Defying numerous direct orders, aligning ourselves with ARGUS, almost getting ourselves killed - trumps bringing in a wanted criminal, I think. Charging us with treason isn’t the worst thing they can do to us,” he mutters after a second. 

Neither is that. 

He’s not wrong though. 

The FBI and ARGUS had descended upon them at Ravenspur mere minutes after Anatoly departed, and she barely had time to bid Oliver a pained goodbye before the FBI whisked them away in handcuffs and bundled into the back of an unmarked, heavily armoured SUV. Like they were criminals, like her _father._ And yeah. That memory still stings like hell. 

The FBI hadn’t taken too kindly to Diggle’s and Felicity’s blatant disregard of authority, despite being handed one of the most wanted criminals in the world. For a whole week, she was treated like a high-risk prisoner. They kept her and Diggle separated the entire trip back to Quantico, but she had no doubt that he didn’t fare much better. Felicity sat through no less than ten long, very loud, lectures about Bureau policy, breaching protocols and improper conduct - all of which she pretty much zoned out of - before she was finally reunited with Diggle. 

They were interrogated, together and individually, debriefed, and then interrogated again (four polygraphs!) about the choices they made, why they made them and the long, arduous, days ended with her feeling completely and utterly drained. 

Every night since being brought in from Ravenspur, after long, gruelling hours of being questioned over and over again about her motives, she collapses onto the standard issue bunk bed in the basement of the FBI building, uncaring that she hadn’t been able to get a proper meal or sleep in ...

Six days. 

It’s been six days. 

(The same exact amount of days since she’s seen or heard from Oliver, but who’s counting? Not her. Nope.)

Then yesterday, she’d heard that Diggle had finally lost his cool and gone toe to toe with Special Agent Lance, very loudly, during one of his individual interrogation sessions. Felicity doesn’t know exactly what went down between the two of them, but from what she’s gleaned from the whispers along the corridors (gossip spreads, even within the FBI), that was the last straw and well - 

Here they are. 

“Digg, are we in actual trouble? Did... did I get you in trouble?” 

It’s been eating at her since the day they were brought in. Her recklessness is how they ended up here in the first place. Now both their jobs are on the line, Digg’s throwing around words like ‘treason’ and while Felicity is ready to accept 100% of the responsibility for her less than stellar performance in the field, Digg’s reputation really doesn’t deserve to be dragged through the mud with hers. 

Before she can spend more time digging herself deeper into the pit of guilt, the door finally opens and Lance walks in, a grim expression on his face. He has a folder in his hand, thin and unassuming but Felicity knows better. 

“Hello, you two,” Lance grunts. He pulls out the chair on the other side of the table and sinks down heavily into it. “Again.” 

“Hi.” Felicity tries to keep her voice as neutral as possible. She rolls her shoulders. “What’s the verdict?” 

Lance doesn’t meet her eyes - so, bad news then - but he frowns, looking down at the folder in front of him. To his credit, he looks as uncomfortable as she feels, and maybe that means he’ll go easy on them. Maybe she’ll cop community service instead of being sent to jail? 

“First of all, thank you for your... help, in apprehending Noah Kuttler.” 

She very nearly says ‘you’re welcome’ out of habit, but bites her tongue just in time. “My _help?”_ she repeats sardonically, before going for broke. It’s not like she has anything to lose anymore. 

“You say that as if that wasn’t the only reason you recruited me in the first place. Like you didn’t manipulate me, right from the beginning, to get to _exactly_ that end. You used me to apprehend my father. Congratulations on a job well done.” 

“Agent Smoak, there were circumstances at play that prevented us from revealing what we knew at the time. We were concerned that if you knew we suspected your father was behind the information, you wouldn’t agree to the operation.” 

“Do you know what they say about people who assume things about other people? Do you know what they call them?” Felicity mutters dryly. “It rhymes with ‘sass’.”

Agent Lance presses his lips together the same time Diggle sends her an exasperated look. Felicity rolls her eyes at them. 

“As I was saying.” Lance clears his throat. “Your contribution to the operation was invaluable, and as such, the Bureau is prepared to overlook your methods, unconventional as they were in getting to that end. The Director is satisfied with the results of your, and Agent Diggle’s, debrief -”

“Oh, is that what the last six days of torture has been? A _debrief?”_ Felicity interrupts. “How quaint.”

Lance glares at her before pointedly resuming,“ - and provided you agree to some conditions, you will be reinstated as Agents by the end of the day.” 

Felicity licks her lips. She’s still angry. More exhausted, really, but angry too. She’s had her strings pulled by the FBI like a goddamned puppet, right from the beginning, and no matter how many ‘thank yous’ she receives from them, that’s never going to sit well with her.

“What conditions?” 

It’s the first time Diggle’s spoken since Lance walked in, and Felicity turns to him now, head tilted to the side. The blank look on his face betrays nothing, and she can’t tell if he’s really interested or if he’s asking merely out of curiosity. 

Lance gives them both the fakest smile Felicity has ever seen in her life. 

“You’ll be put on probation for six months and reinstated for full duties once that’s over. You cease all contact with your ARGUS companions. You will not speak to them, see them or mention them at all under any circumstances. In fact, you don’t mention this entire operation at all if you don’t have to.” 

Oliver’s face flashes in her mind’s eye, complete with his dopey I-just-woke-up grin. She remembers the way he jumped on top of her, saving her from the brunt of the electrical fire and the explosions Noah had set off, and her blood boils with indignation. Frustration flares in her again. She clenches her jaw.

“We wouldn’t be alive and you wouldn’t have Noah if it _weren’t_ for ARGUS,” she snaps. “Tell them, Digg! Tell them how, out of all the people we could trust to have our back, it ended up being _ARGUS,_ and not our own goddamned agency! And we’re not supposed to acknowledge that, ever?” 

“The Director was clear about this, Smoak. You agree to these conditions, or -” 

“Or we’re fired.” Felicity finishes for him in a low growl.

Lance shrugs, a shadow of a smile flickering across his lips. He’s feeling smug, she can tell. Like he knows he’s caught them in a dead end. It does nothing to dissuade her rising discontent and it certainly doesn’t help when Lance raises his eyebrow at her in a silent, ‘So what’s it going to be?’. 

This is so _stupid,_ she seethes. She’s conflicted, all _twisty_ inside, because this entire situation is superbly fucked up. On one hand, she’s fuming at how the FBI is practically holding her hostage and threatening to fire her from her job, a job they _manipulated_ her into, unless she toes the line like a good little girl. And on the other hand - 

She blinks at Lance. 

Then at Diggle. 

Good, loyal, Diggle, who’s been with the FBI for years and years, and is _still -_ in the end, here with her, suffering the same fate, despite his exemplary track record with them. Why would _she_ want to stay with the Bureau when this is how they treat one of their best agents? 

The revelation strikes her like lightning on a calm night, a single bright spark of light illuminating the bleak, cloying darkness.

There _is_ no other hand. 

“I quit.” She doesn’t stutter, drawing an immense amount of satisfaction from the way Lance’s jaw drops open in shock. Didn’t expect that, did he? “Or fire me, whatever.” 

_“Excuse-”_

Felicity clears her throat. “I’ll hand in my gun and badge today. Be out of your hair as soon as possible.” 

With far more bravado than she had mere minutes ago, Felicity stands up, making a point to slowly scrape her chair backwards eliciting an ear-hurting screech of metal against cement. 

And then she leaves.

* * *

Diggle comes after her later that evening, a few hours of her handing in her badge. The Bureau had accepted her resignation without question, thankfully, and she’s packing to leave when he knocks on the door to her small room that she’s left ajar. 

She’s ready for him, having prepared a long list of reasons why she did what she did in case he asks her. Number one being she’s not cut out for all the rule-following that the FBI requires of her. 

The other reasons revolve around how pissed she is at _everything._

“Are you sure this is what you want to do?” he questions quietly as Felicity shoves what’s left of her meagre belongings into her duffle bag. Just clothes, mostly. Standard issue FBI clothing that they’d given her when she arrived from Ravenspur, but hey - if she’s going to be jobless for the near future, she’s going to take anything she can get. 

“Yeah, I’m sure.” She scans the rest of the sorry excuse of a room that’s been her home for the past six days one last time, making sure she’s got everything. “All these rules and red tape and... I thought it was cool at first, but I think I really do have a problem with authority after all. I’ll miss you, of course, you’re like my only friend here, but I can’t... this isn’t how I want to live my life, you know? ” 

Digg inhales, long and hard. “If you’re sure...” 

Felicity flicks her eyes up to him quickly. “Not that I’m judging _you_ for staying, or anything. You’re good with this whole being a Fed business. It’s more your thing and I’m not holding it against you. ‘Sides, you wouldn’t have gotten into so much trouble if it wasn’t for me anyway, so -”

“I quit too, Felicity.” 

Her duffle bag drops to the floor with a loud thud. _“What!?”_

Digg shrugs, his body taking up the space of the entire doorway. “They gave me a choice and just like you, I made mine.” 

“Digg,” Felicity whispers, still gobsmacked. “You _love_ the FBI. You’ve been here for ages! Training rookies is like your super power something. Why would you quit all of that?” 

A strange glimmer of contentment washes over Digg’s face. He looks relaxed, far more relaxed that she’s seen him in months and it makes her feel a little better. The surprise ebbs away, and she offers him a small smile. He smiles back at her. 

“I think you and I both need a new start,” is all he tells her. He picks up her duffle bag for her, shouldering it as his smile widens. “Away from Quantico and the FBI and all these... protocols. Something new, you know?” 

“What are you gonna do?” she asks, curious. She wonders if he’s going to go find Lyla and rekindle their romance. Her heart swells at the thought. They looked good together, and worked well professionally together. Maybe that would translate well into working together romantically too? 

Digg answers her with a question of his own. “Well, what are _your_ plans, Felicity?” 

Oh. 

She grins. Her cheeks heat up and she chews on her bottom lip. He must not have heard the news yet then. She holds up a finger while she pulls her phone out of her back pocket. She’s still grinning when she pulls up her browser and directs it to the news before handing it over to him. 

“Read it,” she instructs. 

The furrow of confusion of his brow is cute, but Diggle takes her phone and does as he’s told. “Breaking news,” he reads. “Oliver Queen, heir to Queen Consolidated, formerly presumed dead, found alive in Chi-” he breaks off, tearing his eyes off her phone’s screen. 

“Seriously?” 

Felicity nods, still blushing furiously because she knows what he’s thinking but she can’t bring herself to care. 

“You’re really going to go back to Starling?” ‘ _For him’_ goes unspoken but she hears it in his tone anyway.

“I used to work there,” she reminds him. “Before I was dragged into this whole mess. Remember? Going back makes the most sense right now, Oliver or no Oliver.” 

She takes her phone back from Digg. “I haven’t actually physically heard from him yet, but he sent me a text about an hour ago to check the news, so I guess it means ARGUS is letting him go? It’s probably going to be a _whole thing_ \- him coming back from the dead and all - so I thought why not go back to Starling and uh, be entertained by all of that for a while?” 

Digg makes an indecipherable noise in the back of his throat. He still has her duffle bag slung over his shoulder and for a moment they descend into a weird silence. She’s not sure if she should ask for her bag back, and he's just staring at her like he’s trying to unravel a particularly complicated spool of thread. 

“Digg, are you -” 

He shakes his head. His eyes glint with a hint of mirth, narrowing his eyes at her. He purses his lips, eyes fluttering shut for a moment before he sighs. 

“How do you feel about having company in Starling?” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aren't you glad you didn't have to wait long for this penultimate chapter? :) Hope it's lived up to your expectations - only one more to go after this!
> 
> Twitter: @griever_11


	18. Chapter 18

**April 2014, Starling City, Queen Consolidated**

Felicity was right.

(Which is no surprise, she’s _always_ right)

That Queen family portrait in the building’s foyer? Horrendous. He shudders at the sight. It’s not just the fact that it’s _huge_ \- like, looming over everyone who dares walk into the building huge, but God, his _hair!_ What was he thinking back then? 

Idly, he wonders if it’s too much to ask Felicity to work her magic and alter the portrait somehow. Photoshop the painting and make it less... obnoxious. Do people do that these days? 

“Mr. Queen, right this way. Your access pass is still being prepared by Security, so we’ll have to use mine today. You can pick yours up on the way out.” 

Oliver tears his eyes away from the garish portrait and forces a smile onto his face. “Of course,” he says, nodding at the eager young man his mother appointed to be his assistant, currently showing him around the office. He fiddles with his tie, rolling his neck at the discomfort, and follows the man - Harry? Larry? - obligingly. 

He barely pays attention to whatever the man is saying as they make their way through the foyer, then the general receiving area and then into the elevator that will take him up to the Executive floor. 

It’s not that he’s uninterested in the company, far from it. He’s going to be running it soon so he’s sure he’ll find all this information useful at some point. But right at that moment? Oliver’s far more preoccupied by other things... for example - 

He scans the very many buttons on the side, perking up when he spots the one he’s looking for.

“Hey, buddy,” he turns to the young man. He puts on an air of casual nonchalance. “Does this tour you’re giving me - ah, does it include the IT Department?” 

“Um.” The man swallows hard, Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat. Behind his glasses the man’s eyes widen nervously. “Mrs Queen didn’t say... I mean, the IT Department isn’t - it’s not that important, is it? I was told to bring you upstairs and let you get settled in, but not down to -” 

Oliver decides to interrupt the guy before he has a breakdown in the elevator. He pats the guy on the shoulder as the elevator dings and they both walk out. 

“It’s fine. Don’t worry about it. Lead on.” 

His father’s office - his mother’s now - is all the way on the other end, and his new one is right next to it. He’s still unsure about how he feels about that; being in such close quarters with his mother, but it’s a concern he sets on the backburner for the moment. There are bigger things to be worried about.

He’d had his doubts about jumping back into the family business so soon, but considering he’s working through being back from the dead, physically and _mentally,_ and even though a large part of him is itching for some sort of _action,_ for now, some semblance of normalcy is probably a good thing for him. 

Harry/Larry starts blathering on about the many changes Queen Consolidated has been through since his untimely (but wholly exaggerated) death, but as he ambles down the hallway, Oliver notices that physically, the Executive floor is exactly how he remembers it. 

The windows and walls are floor to ceiling glass, the offices are fitted with elegant, solid mahogany furniture, but otherwise contains _no_ personality whatsoever. As he walks, memories that he’d suppressed for years come rushing back to him. Memories of being scolded for running down the hallways, of playing hide-and-seek with Thea while they waited for their parents to finish up with their meetings, and of that one time he brought Sandy McBride into the - 

Hm. 

Not one of his proudest moments. 

But still, he revels in it. He allows himself to relive these moments, letting the feelings associated with them fill him, brightly coloured images flitting to and fro in his mind’s eye as he wanders through the office space. 

It’s been a little over a month since he got out from under ARGUS’s thumb and staged his ‘miraculous resurrection’, yet moments like these still manage to take him by surprise. Especially since this time, it’s being in Queen Consolidated, of all places, that has triggered this round of fond memories. 

“So this is your office. I’ll let you have a look around and then um, I’ll be back in an hour to introduce you to the department heads. I’m right outside if you need anything. Your employment contract is on your desk.” 

Oliver nods and smiles at the young man as he enters his smaller, but no less impressive than his mother’s, office. 

It’s sparse, he notes. There’s the customary portrait of his father hanging on the back wall, but otherwise, besides the majestic solid wooden desk and the really, really big computer monitor on it, it’s lacking any personal touches. 

_Except -_

Oliver hurries to his desk when his gaze falls onto the one thing that looks out of place in his office. Next to the computer screen, just by the keyboard, is a small porcelain animal, no bigger than his fist. He picks it up to study it, a grin growing across his face. 

“A fox,” he hums under his breath. He sinks into his very comfortable office chair, still examining the little figurine.

It’s beautiful, smooth to the touch. The cool glass body of the fox is adorned with what looks like hand-painted fur. The details on the fox’s face have been delicately carved into the glass and he cradles the little animal in his hands like it’s the most precious thing in his entire world. 

“Harry!” he yells, still staring lovingly at the fox. “Hey! Harry!” 

He hears the faint sounds of feet skidding across the polished marble floor, before his office door swings open. 

“Mr. Queen?” his assistant gasps. “Is there a problem?”

“Can you ah,” Oliver tears his eyes away from his new favourite gift. “Can you please ask the Director of the IT Department to come up here, please?” 

Harry stares at him dumbly. “Like, now? But the introduction meeting isn’t for another -”

Oliver sends his chair rolling back as he stands up abruptly, cutting his assistant off mid-sentence. Screw this. He places his fox, very gently, in its rightful place next to his keyboard before waving his assistant away. 

“It’s fine, I’ll go down myself,” he decides. “If anyone asks, I’ll be back in like, half an hour.”

His assistant sputters unintelligibly as Oliver walks past him and out of his office. Annoyingly, Harry doesn’t let up and scrambles ahead of him, walking backwards as if he can stop Oliver from leaving. 

“But - but _sir,_ Mr. Queen, you still have to go through your contract and -” 

Oliver rolls his eyes, side-stepping the man. “Not important,” he mutters, hitting the button to call the elevator. He hits it again. Come _on._

“Not important?” he hears Harry repeat in whispered disbelief. “Mr. Queen, no offense, but what could be more important than signing your employment contract?” 

The doors finally slide open and Oliver steps through, turning around to face his very flustered assistant. Oliver leans sideways as the doors start closing, tilting his head so his assistant can still see him. 

“Felicity,” Oliver chirps over a grin. _“She’s_ more important. See ya!”

* * *

People notice him now. 

And, for someone who’s spent so many years living in the shadows, it’s a really strange feeling. The same people who wouldn’t have given him a second glance months ago because they thought he was _dead,_ now gawk at him unabashedly as he walks past them. 

His mysterious resurrection is all Starling City can talk about, and though he understands the fascination, the attention still makes him uneasy. Hushed whispers follow him wherever he goes. Conversations suffer awkward deaths any time he enters a room, and his personal favourite reaction thus far: the not so subtle, ‘pause, stumble, double-back’ combo that people use when they want to get a second look at him. 

He thought that coming back to work for his family’s company would give him a welcome reprieve from all the scrutiny, but as he makes his way through the IT Department in search for Felicity, he starts to think that maybe he was wrong. 

He nods at all the people who stick their heads out from the cubicles curiously and it makes him feel like one of Felicity’s many bobbleheads at her apartment. His cheeks start to ache from the very fake smile on his face, but then he arrives at the frosted glass door with the elegant _‘Felicity Smoak’_ nameplate on it and his forced smile dissolves into a genuine one. 

The door opens silently and no one’s brave enough to question him about going into her office so Oliver just stands at the threshold for a second, marvelling - always marvelling - at the woman before him. 

She has her back to the door, rearranging things on her desk as she mumbles quietly to herself. Her ponytail bobs along as she putters around, blissfully ignorant of his presence. Adoration fills his entire being, blooming from his heart like a bud in spring.

Her shirt - he remembers her complaining about ironing it last night - is crisp, white, and does not have the right to look as good as it does on her right now. Her skirt is tight around her waist, cutting off just above the back of her knees and if he thought seeing her in her tight skinny jeans had been devastatingly sexy - well. He stands corrected. 

He crosses the threshold, letting the door swing shut behind him. Unable to hold the swell of his emotions in any longer, he blurts out a low, rumbly, “Hi.” 

She whirls around in a flash of blonde and pink. _“Jesu_ \- Oliver!” she gasps, her pen clattering to the ground in her surprise. “What are you doing here?” 

Oliver grins. “Mm, hello to you too,” he greets in the same rumbly voice, preening with delight when he notices the goosebumps that erupt over her skin. He zeroes in on her collarbone, smirking when he spies the mark he left on her a few nights ago. 

His lips descend on hers and he greets her properly. He swallows her satisfied sigh, dragging his tongue over the flesh of her bottom lip, not at all bothered that her lipstick might stain his own lips. In fact, he’s going to kiss her even harder so he _does_ get her lipstick on him. He wants people to know he’s taken. That this magnificent example of a human being had deemed him worthy of her love. 

He missed her, and sure it’s only been like three hours since he last saw her, but she’d left so early this morning he hadn’t been able to give her a proper good morning kiss so -

“The introduction meeting isn’t for another hour, Oliver,” Felicity chastises, though there’s no real bite in her words. She pulls away, her tongue darting out like she’s savouring the remnants of his flavour and boy, does that just _do it_ for him. 

Oliver takes a solid step back in an attempt to control himself. “Yeah, but you left too early this morning and I didn’t get to say hi,” he complains. Then he narrows his eyes. “Wait. Did you leave early just so you can put the fox on my desk?” 

Her face lights up. Her hands come up to play with his collar, straightening his tie. “Do you like her?” 

“I _love_ her,” he tells her, voice full of meaning. “I love her _so much.”_

Felicity blushes hard, as he expects her to. He’s aware that he might be laying it on a bit thick, and playing with fire with his not so subtle declaration, but for her, he’s willing to endure the blaze of a thousand suns.

He catches her wandering fingers in his hands and brings them up to brush a soft kiss over her knuckles. Attraction crackles between them as it always does whenever they’re alone together. He lets his lips linger over her skin.

“I love that you love her,” Felicity tells him quietly, and he _understands._

He picks up on the slight hitch in her voice, the undercurrent of steady reassurance in her breathy whisper. They might not be ready to say the words to each other yet, but the feelings - their feelings - are undeniably real. Tangible. Unquestionable. 

When ARGUS agreed, albeit very reluctantly, to release him from his contract and to bring him back to the world of the living, he’d been unsure what awaited him on the other side. 

He knew his family would welcome him back with open arms, but Felicity... he never expected her to return to Starling, or to want to still be with him after _everything._ But there she was, that fine Sunday afternoon, grinning at him from beneath a baseball cap, standing shoulder-to-shoulder with Diggle, trying to blend in among the crowd of curious onlookers as he got off the plane for his miraculous return to civilisation. 

They agreed, at the time, to keep their relationship under wraps - at least until they both found their footing in their new, post-secret agent lives. It turned out to be a good move in the end, since the story that ARGUS had concocted was that Oliver had been stranded on Lian Yu _the whole time._

Oliver suspects they didn’t really want to put any effort into it, not after the way he and Lyla had threatened to go public with _everything_ they knew about ARGUS if they weren’t both let out of their contracts. 

Coincidentally, the day that he and Lyla were scheduled to be brought in for questioning, the ARGUS servers went berserk, wiping all the data they ever had on the both of them and Waller literally had no other choice than to let them go. 

Felicity claims she had nothing to do with it.

Except she _totally_ did, and he thanked her for effort, very thoroughly, and so loudly that he’s impressed her neighbours hadn’t caught on to their clandestine affair back then. 

Heat flares over his own cheeks and he allows himself to be overwhelmed for a second, by the magnitude of what he feels for her. It’s only been two months since that fateful day on the rooftop where they agreed to be together, but to him, it feels like they’ve been doing this forever. Like his place in the world is, and always has been, with her. 

“I contemplated packing you lunch for your first day at the office but poisoning you didn’t seem like the best idea, so you’ll have to make do with the fox,” she laughs, the tinkle of her voice echoing around them. 

“Thank you for my fox,” he murmurs against her skin. He pulls her into him. “I’m going to treasure her forever.” 

She steps back then, pushing her glasses up her nose and she sweeps her hands down her shirt, smoothing out the creases. “People are gonna talk about you being down here,” she points out, pursing her lips. “We’re not supposed to officially meet til like, later. In an hour, to be exact.” 

“I don’t care.” 

“Oliver.” 

“I really don’t,” he insists. “What are they going to say? That I’m sleeping my way to the top?” He wiggles his brows, smirking. “Seeing as how, technically, you’re in a much higher position than I am, right now?” 

It’s the truth. He might have an office on the Executive level, but for all intents and purposes, he has no real title at Queen Consolidated yet, and Felicity - brilliant, genius Felicity, had been immediately hired as the Director of their IT Department when his mother found out she had also been headhunted by Palmer Tech, Wayne Enterprises and Kord Industries at the same time. 

“You’re terrible,” she grouses. “But, if you’re done _saying hello,”_ she rolls her eyes when he leers at her. “I have actual work to do this morning, and so do you, according to Sam -”

“Who’s Sam?” Oliver interrupts. He’s still getting the lay of the land around the office, but he’s sure he hasn’t come across anyone named Sam.

“Your assistant,” Felicity rolls her eyes. _“Sam,_ nerdy kid, thick glasses, kinda has a crush on me?” 

Sam? Isn’t his name Harry? Or Larry? Wait. Oliver’s eyes widens before he frowns at her. 

“Harry has a _what_ on you?” 

“Oh my God, Oliver!” Felicity’s exasperation hits her limit. 

She places both her hands on his shoulders and forces him to turn around before shoving him towards the exit - that’s cute, that she thinks she can make him move if he doesn’t want to. 

“His name is _Sam,_ not Harry, and he’s harmless so you’re not allowed to go all grr on him okay?” 

“But you’re _my_ girlfriend, my real one, and not my _secret_ one anymore, after today,” Oliver pouts, pretending to stumble as he finally lets her manhandle him towards the door. He tilts his head back to give her what he hopes is an adorable smile. “No crushing assistants allowed.” 

“Uh huh, sure, you try to remember that for the future when random women start showing up on your floor asking to speak to you for no reason, okay?” 

“Hm. That’s fair,” he concedes. He spins around to face her just before Felicity can get a hold of the door handle. He leans down to kiss her goodbye, hoping once again, that she’ll leave a little pink on his lips. “But only if _you_ remember that I only have eyes for you, random women notwithstanding.” 

The annoyance on her face falters briefly and a soft, almost _melty,_ expression replaces it for a moment. Until she shakes her head at him and presses her lips together, narrowing her eyes as she sees right through his charm. 

“You’re lucky you’re so cute,” she mutters, reaching around him to push the door handle down. 

She nudges him gently and urges him through the door and out of her office. Her hand lingers on his forearm, squeezing it once before she drops his hand, adopting an air of complete professionalism and appropriateness for the busybodies who are undoubtedly craning their necks to see what they’re up to.

She smiles at him politely. “When you’re done today, can you meet me at Big Belly across the street? Digg and I have something to show you.” 

Oliver quirks his brow at her, careful to dial down the flirt in his voice. “You got me another gift?” 

Felicity licks her lips, her eyes twinkling with mischief and mystery. She winks at him. 

“You’ll see.”

* * *

**April 2014, The Glades, Outside Abandoned Warehouse**

“Close your eyes.”

“Why?” 

Felicity purses her lips. Stubborn man. “‘Cause I’m surprising you. C’mon, just for a second.” 

“If it’s just for a second, then what’s the point of doing it?” 

Oh, he thinks he’s so clever. Oliver shrugs at her, a lazy, cocky smile playing on his lips. He’s rolled up the sleeves of his business shirt, loosened his tie and left the top button undone, looking positively scrumptious. GQ would die for a centre spread that looks _half_ as good as he does right now. 

How’s she supposed to stay annoyed at him when he looks like this? 

She busts out her secret weapon. 

_“Please,_ Oliver?” 

She makes her eyes go wide, just in case her low, seductive plea doesn’t work. 

“Okay, okay, fine, have it your way.” 

Felicity pumps her fist once in victory, grinning when Oliver shuts his eyes obediently. After waving her hands over his face quickly to make sure he’s not peeking, she grabs his hand and pulls him the short walk towards the single door that leads into the abandoned warehouse she’d found over a month ago. 

“Keep them closed!” she instructs while she inputs a code into the numeric panel next to the door. 

“They’re closed!” Oliver insists. 

The lock disengages with a distinctive _snick,_ and that’s the moment Oliver’s curiosity piques. His ears twitch, perking up, and his entire body tenses with anticipation. Felicity laughs under her breath. You can take the man out of ARGUS but you can’t take ARGUS out the man, it seems. 

Which, coincidentally, is exactly why she’s doing _this._

She takes his hand again, pulling him into the building. Oliver doesn’t say a word, but she knows he’s cataloguing his surroundings, memorising the sounds around them, the number of steps he’s taking as she leads him through another door and then, finally, very carefully, down a flight of stairs. 

Diggle’s already waiting for them when they approach. He quirks his brow in amusement when he notices Oliver with his face all scrunched up, eyes screwed shut in exaggeration.

“Okay. We’re here. You can open your eyes now,” she announces breathily. 

She won’t lie, she’s equal parts terrified and excited about this. She hadn’t consulted him at all, taking it upon herself to get everything organised, setting up the space with Digg’s help. She figured (and hoped, with all her heart) that it would be easier to convince him to go along with her grand plan if she already had all of this set up and ready to go.

_This,_ being an entire basement set up like -

“Felicity...” Her name leaves Oliver’s lips in an awe-inspired whisper. “Is this a... _secret lair?”_

Okay, so maybe it isn’t _like_ a secret lair, and more of actually _is_ a secret lair. 

“Um... yes?” 

She holds her breath as Oliver takes it all in. He turns, slowly, on the balls of his feet, mouth hanging open. To be fair, it _is_ an impressive sight and Felicity takes pride in the fact that she’s managed to render him speechless. 

“These - _Felicity,_ these are -” 

“Next gen Quantum Core processing units, three of them, actually,” Felicity supplies. Oliver’s still staring at her dumbfounded, so she elaborates. “Because there’s no way I’m working on _one_ desktop like we’re back in the 90s, you know? So three seems like a good compromise cause I wanted five, but boy, are these things expensive.” 

Nothing. 

Oliver says _nothing._

His entire body is so still, the bewilderment obvious on his face. A wrinkle forms between Digg’s brows too and it absolutely puts a damper on her buzzing excitement. 

A wave of fear and doubt crashes into her. Maybe she _should_ have asked him before doing this. Fuck. Her blood runs cold. What if he thinks she’s intruding into his life? Oh, God, what if he thinks she overstepped and is trying to dictate how he should live his life the way ARGUS did? 

“You know your list?” Felicity blurts out in an attempt to stave off the looming dread seeping into her bones. 

Hurrying over to the brand new, ergonomically designed workstation she and Digg (mostly Digg) put together last week, she pulls out the battered notebook that Oliver had brought back with him to Starling and waves it at him. 

“This list your father gave you that you’re trying really hard to ignore, but that I know is eating at you on the inside ‘cause you’re not doing anything about it?” 

_That_ gets a reaction out of him. His neutral facade breaks and he frowns at her. “Hey, how did you -” 

“I got it off you when you were sleeping. But look, I know you said you wanted to focus on just being back, and being a good son, and a good brother and all that -” She’s speaking so fast, she’s stumbling over her words, but she can’t help it. She’s on the verge of _panicking_ and if she doesn't get her words out quick enough, Oliver might hate her for being so presumptuous and she - 

She can’t, _won’t,_ be able to handle Oliver hating her. 

“- but ARGUS took this list from you when they got you off the island, right? This list, that old, ratty hoodie and _God,_ that really dangerous looking bow. They took it all from you, kept them from you for years without giving you a chance to figure out what any of it means. But now you have all of this back you _can_ do something about it! I looked into the names your father wrote down, just... quickly. Very quickly. Mostly to test out my tech - but these guys are bad guys, Oliver. And I don’t know, maybe that’s why your father...” 

She falters, finally taking a breath before clamping her mouth shut. An unpleasant chill creeps into her veins. It all made so much sense to her at the time, when she’d sat down with Digg and told him her grand plan, so blinded with optimism and hope that Oliver would appreciate what she’s doing, that she never considered the alternative. 

“You -” Oliver starts, then shakes his head. His expression is unreadable, but there’s no hate in his gaze and thankfully, no resentment. That she can detect, anyway. He moves, slowly, his head turning to take in the whole room before he focuses back on her. His eyes are bright, inquisitive, and so blue as he makes his way to where she’s standing. 

“So you took my list and ran the names even though I said I didn’t want to do anything about it? And then you set up this. _.. place,_ got all this equipment and - ” 

Felicity swallows. She pushes her glasses up her nose. “Technically, I set up the lair first, and _then_ I ran the names.”

Oliver lets out a half-amused huff or air, gifting her with a glimmer of a smile that eases the nervous tension in her veins. 

“Of course, you did.” His voice is hoarse, tinged with what sounds like curious wonder. “But Felicity _... why?”_

She looks at Digg, hoping for some form of contribution from his end, but the man just leans back on the workbench in the corner of the room and shrugs at her. Fat lot of help, he is. 

“I just... I know you need a purpose,” she whispers, bowing her head to avoid his piercing gaze. “Not that being Oliver Queen, heir of Queen Consolidated isn’t, y’know, something to be proud of, but you said - you said that working for ARGUS gave you a purpose and that’s why you stuck with them for so long. I thought maybe it would be the same here... that one day you’d get bored just being _you,_ because you don’t have a purpose and then you’ll want to -”

_Leave me._

She can’t bring herself to say the words, because she can’t fathom it. She doesn’t even want to entertain the possibility for even a second longer. 

“You built an entire base of operations to make sure I... didn’t get bored?” There’s a hint of incredulity underlying his question. Gruff and gravelly, his tone brings her back to the very first time they met, him walking up to her in the abandoned firehouse not too far from here.

“Okay, when you put it that way, it sounds just a little-” Felicity pinches the bridge of her nose. “ _-extreme,_ but I had good intentions. This is your home, Oliver. Don’t you want to protect it from diabolical, evil, bad guys? A _whole list_ of evil bad guys? ” 

Oliver’s mouth hangs half-open, but the corners of his lips are tilted upwards, just slightly, and it gives her hope that maybe she hasn’t completely tanked this ridiculous endeavour of hers.

Gradually, almost as if he’s finally allowed himself the time to let this all sink in, Oliver’s entire face morphs and his small smile blossoms into a huge, toothy grin. It amazes her, even though by this point Felicity’s well-acquainted with the many sides of Oliver Queen, how remarkable his smile is. 

Her stomach flutters, excitement rebuilding again now that it doesn’t appear like Oliver’s going to chew her head off. 

“No one knows me the way you do, Felicity,” he whispers, and she knows it’s yet another poorly veiled declaration of his feelings for her. Her heart jumps into her throat. “No one’s ever built me an entire base of operations before either,” he murmurs softly, the gentlest expression on his face. 

He raises a hand, cupping her cheek in his palm. On instinct, Felicity tilts her head into his warmth and smiles back at him. 

“It wasn’t just me, Digg helped too,” Felicity offers. “Like, a lot. We wanted to make sure you had everything you needed. And also, some of this stuff is really, really heavy.” 

“What...” Oliver glances up, looking once again, at the space around him. “What exactly do you think we’re going to do down here?” 

“Take down bad guys, for one,” she answers without missing a beat. “Like you said, I _know_ you, Oliver,” she repeats herself. “I know you want to look into these names, even if you say you don’t. I know you want to honour your father’s sacrifice - who, as despicable as the things he did while he was alive, was practically a _saint_ compared to mine, so no judgment here - and I... I want to help.”

She looks at him expectantly, but Oliver remains stubbornly silent so she continues, “Plus, I know you trust Anatoly, but we’ve got to keep our eyes on the Odessa don’t we? In case word gets out about... _all that._ And y’know, what with me pretending to be a criminal hacker and all before we met - I gotta watch my back too now. So it’s like, a general... keep Starling City, and _us,_ safe type of thing.”

“So you’re proposing that we... what? Go about our lives navigating the corporate world by day and fight crime by night?” Oliver presses his lips together, clearly amused by the idea. “Like Batman?”

Felicity reels back on her heels, surprised. “You know about Batman?” 

“I was undercover the last couple of years, Felicity, not _actually dead._ I hear things on the news.” 

“Well, then, yeah. Like Batman, only you can use that bow of yours so... more Robin Hood? I think you’d look good in tights.” Felicity beams, wiggling her eyebrows. “You could call yourself the Hoodman.” She scrunches up her nose. “Hm. Maybe not. We’ll circle back to that. But... what do you think?”

She reaches out to grasp his much larger hand in hers. On the tips of her toes, she stretches to brush a kiss over his jawline. He leans into it, turning a little so it lands just at the corner of his lips. 

Now that she’s no longer afraid that he’s going to completely shut her out for being so presumptuous, she gives him an out.

“It’s okay if you don’t want to. It was just an idea.” 

She could probably repurpose the space for some of her other less-than-legal hobbies anyway. It would be such a shame though, because she designed what would be Oliver’s training area to be in her direct line of sight from her computers and she knows that he likes to train shirtless so -

“A good idea,” Oliver says suddenly, cutting into her rambling thoughts. “A _great o_ ne.” 

Felicity grins. She tightens her hold around his hand. “Yeah?” 

Oliver nods decisively. He rolls his neck, then folds his arms over his chest. “You’re right. As usual. I do want to get to the bottom of that list and I was just... putting it off because I didn't’ know _how._ Besides, we can’t let this whole base go to waste, can we?” 

“Secret lair,” Felicity corrects. “Oh! Or Hood Cave?”

“We will most certainly be coming back to that,” Oliver grumbles. “Diggle, you’re - are you part of this too?” 

Felicity blinks at the question. She definitely had forgotten that Digg was in there with them. Which happens _way_ more often than it should, if she’s being honest with herself. “Ninja!” she mutters under her breath.

Digg walks up to the two of them, stoic and unaffected as always, though there’s a lightness in his step when he approaches them.

Felicity eyes the two men cautiously. It’s no secret that Digg and Oliver have had their disagreements from the moment they met, and he’s never really been a 100% on board with their relationship, so she’s just a little wary. 

On the other hand, Digg had come to Starling with her in the first place, knowing she was here mainly for Oliver, and then proceeded to help her with the secret lair without a single complaint, so maybe that means he’s warming up to Oliver?

“Yeah, I’m in,” Digg grunts. “Someone’s gotta make sure you two boneheads don’t do anything stupid.” 

Felicity glares at him. “Hey!”

“He’s right, though,” Oliver interjects. He holds his hand out to Digg. “And thank you. For everything. Even... before today. For always having Felicity’s back, Diggle.” 

Felicity sucks in a breath, eyes darting back and forth between the two men, waiting to see what Digg will do. 

And then Digg takes Oliver’s hand, shaking it firmly, and _God,_ she could cry. Her two favourite people in the world, shaking hands? Her heart swells with gratitude and so much happiness that she feels like she could melt into the floor. 

“I will _always_ have her back,” Digg says, shrugging before begrudgingly continuing, “But if we’re doing this, really, then, uh... I guess you can call me Digg.” 

Felicity isn’t able to contain the shrill squeal of elation that bursts from between her lips. It bubbles over as she bounces on her feet, clasping both her hands in front of her. 

_“Digg!”_ she exclaims, unshed tears threatening to fall from her eyes. “You just - Oliver, do you know what this - you guys are _friends_ now!”

“Yeah, yeah,” Digg mutters, maybe a little embarrassed. “Look, don’t make a big deal out of it, okay? I gotta go anyway. I promised Lyla I’d video call her in half an hour and I would prefer not to have you two sucking face in the background when you forget that I’m here. Again.”

Yeah, Digg’s probably never going to let them live down the Ravenspur Sex Incident for the rest of their lives. But it’s fine! Because Oliver and Digg are _friends_ now, and Felicity - she’s happier than she’s ever been in a very long time. 

Diggle makes his exit quickly, taking the stairs two at a time. Felicity watches him leave, making sure she hears the definite sound of the locks engaging before she turns back to Oliver. 

“This is going to be great, I promise,” she tells him. “You, me, and Digg? Cleaning up the streets of Starling together? Criminals won’t know what hit them. Go Team Hood!” 

Oliver laughs, grabbing the hand that she’d raised in the air at her exclamation. “One, we’re not calling ourselves that.” He yanks her hand down, then reels her into a tight, all-encompassing hug. “Two, do you know how fucking amazing you are?”

Felicity luxuriates in his arms, snuggling into his broad chest as he runs his hand up and down her back. “Yeah, I know,” she drawls.

“This... what we’re gonna do, it’s going to be really dangerous,” Oliver says, kissing the top of her head. “I know you’re big on life-changing endeavours and exciting escapades, but are you absolutely sure you want to do this? With me? You could... join the SCPD or something if you want to fight crime, you know?” 

Felicity tips her head back to look up at him, pursing her lips but unable to keep her insides from turning to mush at his genuine concern.

He gazes back at her with an equal amount of adoration in his eyes. “I’m not trying to keep you away, or doubt you, but I do want you to be sure. We don’t know what exactly that list will lead to, or to whom. It could be... big. And definitely illegal. I want you to be safe, that’s all.”

If it were possible for her heart to get any bigger, it would have. She kisses him sweetly, sweeping her tongue over his lips, inhaling his lovely, unique scent as she pulls away. 

“Oliver, my love.” 

Oh, he _liked_ that. His entire body jerks against her in surprise, his arms tightens around her even more, and a very dopey smile stretches across his face. 

“Don’t you know?” 

She sneaks her hands up to his face, curving her palms over his cheek, thumbs drawing circles under his eyes. It’s impossible to comprehend how much she cares about him. It isn’t logical, they don’t make any sense on paper, and yet when she thinks of her future, there’s no one else in it but him. 

Then again, love doesn’t usually make sense, does it? 

“You, Oliver -” she murmurs, dragging her lips over his jawline, tongue darting out to taste his skin. She nibbles gently on his lips, then pulls away slowly. She stares into his eyes, willing him to understand. 

“- are my _safest_ haven and my _greatest_ adventure.” She grins at him. “I wouldn’t want to do this with anyone else _but_ you.”

* * *

THE END

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so here is one last heartfelt thank you, from me to you. 
> 
> It's been a great couple of months writing this, and I hope for you, reading too! Big ups to Pall, whose prompt it was in the first place and who held my hand when chapters got too long and too difficult to churn out. To Nikki, who assured, and reassured me that every chapter wasn't actually trash before I posted them. 
> 
> And thank you for reading, for commenting, for leaving kudos and for basically being the driving force behind this fic. Those of you who have left your reactions on every chapter, or just on one, I've loved them all. Thank you, thank you, thank you! 
> 
> Until next time!


End file.
